


The Hunt

by issa



Series: Fear of Tomorrow [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Brotherhood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-05-01 18:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 73
Words: 139,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5216354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/issa/pseuds/issa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sequel to Falling Apart. The story begins 11 days after the events described there. It helps to read Falling Apart first, but if you haven't, it is enough for you to know that a man named Allancourt arranged for Aramis and d’Artagnan to be captured and tortured. They were rescued by their brothers, but have not had a chance to recover physically or psychologically. Although they are far from fit, the King has demanded that they accompany him on a hunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Anne

  
The sun was still high in the cold, blue sky. Time seemed to drag on more slowly than she ever thought possible. She was more bored than she was tired or saddle sore. She was sure she was becoming ill. Perhaps she had caught whatever sickness her son had. She was worried about her child, and had not been able to sleep last night. The Dauphin had been not feverish when she had left him, but his cough had sounded terrible. However, the King had ignored her pleas to let her stay in Paris. Now she felt even more sick after seeing how excited her husband was to shoot a poor rabbit.

The Inseparables. Aramis. The Queen's sleepless night had not entirely been due to her son. She had been secretly watching Aramis during their journey to Fontainebleau. His thin frame and pallid complexion worried her, but what was more concerning were his empty eyes. He kept everyone at a distance. It was as if some evil spirit had taken the soul of her lively and charming champion. There was no emotion in his eyes.  There was not a sign of joy, nor a hint of the mischievous glint that was usually present. Even his smile was lifeless. She wanted to go to him and demand that her beloved musketeer be restored to her--although he never could really be hers.

She was not even sure if he wanted her around anymore. Her presence seemed to make him uneasy. She started to wonder what she had done to upset him so much. Even after racking her brain, she could not think of anything that might have caused him to be angry.

When she had talked to Constance, the young woman's eyes had filled with tears. She had only suggested that perhaps Aramis felt unworthy of serving his Queen. Then Constance begged her not to ask any more questions. When she approached Porthos, he had done the same.

She needed to talk to Aramis in private. She had to know what was tormenting him. She cast a glance towards the famous Inseparables, who were riding at the rear of their party. Her heart sank when she saw how pale her musketeer was. Despite looking less than fit, he held himself straight and steady on his horse.

Fortunately, the King decided that he wanted to hunt for a something bigger than a rabbit, as it was obvious that God was on his side on this hunt. Distracted by his quest, he agreed to allow the Queen to return to Palace with a party of musketeers to guard her. Tréville volunteered the Inseparables to go with her. He wanted to allow his ailing men to get some rest.

She bid good bye to her husband, who was too excited to even pay attention to her. She guessed that he expected his new lover to join him. Her thoughts turned bitter. She could be killed for loving another man, while he could openly cherish another woman. It was so unfair!

As they rode, all she could think about was how badly she needed to feel Aramis' touch, even if it were innocent. The idea of falling off her horse came to mind, but she quickly discounted it. She might get hurt, and someone besides Aramis might come to her aid. 

Her mare moved her ears nervously, and the young queen seized the opportunity. Heels hidden by her skirts, she kicked the horse as hard as she could, and jerked on the reins, directing her mount towards a side road. The horse responded by shifting into a light canter, just as her rider wanted. Anne spurred her into a fast run, and headed down the narrow road.

  
"Help me!" she cried, secretly urging her horse to go faster. Fortunately, she was dressed comfortably for riding. However, she had to remember that she was not a very good rider. That would certainly make her little charade more believable.

She could not risk a glance over her shoulder, but she heard a horse closing in on her.

_ God please-let it be my Aramis. Please!  _

__

Suddenly, she heard a shot. In that moment, she lost all control of her horse, who leaped forward in terror. She cried out in panic, and desperately hung on to the mane. She had been so stupid! Now she would end up dead! The road seemed to be one blurry, muddy strip, and her eyes were wide with fear. Her mare bucked, and the Queen lost her grasp. She fell heavily, and a sharp flame of pain shot through her left ankle. She curled up on the ground, instinctively reaching for her leg.

She heard a horse approaching at a full gallop, then heard Aramis shouting her name. Her heart stopped when she saw her musketeer jump from his horse without coming to a stop.

_ He would break his neck! _

__

But he rolled to the ground, and landed on one knee next to her.

“Anne! Are you injured?” he asked, his voice desperate.

“My ankle…” she gasped. She felt miserable.

He ghosted his hands over her injured leg. It hurt, but the need for his touch hurt even more.

“I’ll bind it up for now. When we get to a safe place, I’ll take a closer look."  He untied his blue sash.

She nodded. The pain remained, but was sudden overcome by desire. She wanted more than anything to lean into his touch, and to taste his kisses. She wanted him to claim her as his own.

_ It’s a sin! You should not dream about him! You are a queen, you are married _ , _and you are in danger!_ She ignored the voice of her conscience. _I could care less about being a sinner!_  She began to think strategically. _First, you must be safe from bandits, and then…_  

He finished binding her ankle.

“You will need to ride with me." He was stating the obvious, as her mare was long gone.  However, Anne's mind transformed his words into a promise of passionate lovemaking. She flushed in embarrassment. A queen should not even know that the word could be used in that manner.

He helped her to stand up. She pretended to lose her balance, hoping he would catch her in his arms. He did so, but she suddenly felt as if any musketeer in the regiment was holding her. Something was definitely wrong. The situation was worse than she had thought.

He mounted behind her, supporting her with one arm wrapped around her waist. She leaned against his body. He stiffened, but said nothing. They galloped through the forest. Finally, he pulled to a stop in a quiet glade.

“I think we may safely stop here.  I need to take care of your ankle--if you will permit me, Your Majesty.” He dismounted, and she slipped into his waiting arms. His mouth was so close. She found it impossible to resist closing the distance between their lips, and met him in a passionate kiss. To be more precise, she had hoped it would be a passionate kiss. However, Aramis recoiled from her touch, nearly losing his balance. His eyes wide with horror.

Was he in love in another woman?! She could not blame him if it were true, but the thought was incredibly painful. 

But he had reacted more strongly than if the kiss was simply unwanted… perhaps he had vowed to be loyal to his new lover, and was afraid that the queen would demand that he satisfy her appetites? Did Aramis think so little of her?

He lowered her to a sitting position against the trunk of a tree, and knelt before her. His pistol lay on the ground within his reach. He untied his sash from her leg, and she noticed that his hands were trembling.

“It will hurt," he warned her, then pulled off her shoe. She bit her lip, but the pain was not as bad as she had feared. He gently checked her ankle.

“It’s not broken, Your Majesty, only sprained. I will wrap it up once more, and they we can continue riding. We can make a detour up ahead, and hopefully will meet up with the others.”

She took his face in her hands, and looked into his eyes. He stiffened. He reminded her of the poor trapped rabbit that her husband had killed. She gently closed the distance between them, and almost touched his lips before halting. God, he was terrified! She saw pure fear in his beautiful brown orbs.

“Are you in love with another woman?” she asked, knowing what the answer would be.

“No, Your Majesty.”

He was frozen in place.

“May I kiss you then?”

“I would rather you didn't, my lady.”

“Why?”

“It’ is too dangerous--for you, and for your son, Your Majesty”

“That didn't seem to bother you until recently.”

“My Lady…. Please forget about me…”

“Why?”

“I am unworthy of your attention, Your Majesty.”

He irritated her with all these titles he was using. He had never followed protocol so strictly, even when he met her for the first time.

“What happened to you, Aramis?”she burst out, losing her patience.

“I was broken. If they had demanded any information from me, I would be a traitor," he said curtly, then pulled away from her.“We must go, Your Majesty.”

Anne remained silent. She was shocked. Someone had been able to break her musketeer?! Was it really possible?! She did not want to believe it.

He helped her on to the horse. “You are forgiven, Aramis of the King’s Musketeers," she whispered.

He swung up behind her, and was silent for a moment, then muttered, “I do not deserve your forgiveness, my Lady."

They rode on in silence. Anne felt that the day had turned into a complete disaster. Aramis stopped the horse on the edge of the forest.

“The musketeers are there, on the other side of this large clearing. You’ll be soon safe, Your Majesty. I don’t like the looks of this exposed space, so we are going to cross it as fast as possible."

He spurred his horse. The speed made her feel lightheaded, but she felt safe in his arms. However, her heart bled for the man she loved, and she had no idea how to help him.

The shot took her by surprise. Aramis cursed under his breath, and his horse sped up.

“You must ride on your own," he murmured into her ear. "I will stop them.”

She was confused when he gave her the reins.

“Go as fast as you can!”

Suddenly, his solid presence behind her was gone. She cried out his name, but the only answer she heard was the order he gave his horse. “GO!, Orage, go!” The horse listened to his master, and immediately responded.

Anne could feel tears stinging her eyes, and fought to regain her composure before she reached the musketeers. As Orage slowed down, Porthos caught the reins.

“Aramis is back there! Please save him!"  she pleaded desperately.

“I will, Your Majesty," vowed the large man.

“Porthos, Tannard, go after him!" someone ordered.

Athos appeared next to her. “Let me escort you to the safety of the palace, Your Majesty. Are you injured?”

“It's just a sprained ankle," she replied distractedly, her thoughts elsewhere. She could still feel the new scars on Aramis’ face under her fingers. How could she be worried about her minor injuries?!  Someone had broke her musketeer! They had taken the man she loved away from her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

Aramis

The bandits were far too close for comfort. Orage could not reach her top speed while carrying two riders.  He handed the reins to Anne, then leaped off the horse. The impact of the fall caused him to roll when he hit the ground for the second time that day. It was definitely not the way he liked to dismount. He knew how to fall, but training with Porthos on the level ground of the garrison was nothing compared to having his fall broken by branches and rocks.

 

He got up in one swift movement. Fortunately, his mare followed his orders, and ignored the Queen's attempts to redirect her. After making sure that his horse was rushing towards safety, Aramis focused on his enemy by using his favorite method - drawing a bead on one with his musket. Then he took up his pistol. He hit both of his targets, and now had two less enemies.

He had no time to reload his weapon. He was preparing to fight when he realized that one of the men intended to ignore him in order to pursue the Queen. Aramis did not hesitate. Within seconds, his main gauche was buried deep in the raider's back. Unfortunately, the musketeer was then attacked before he could retrieve his dagger, leaving him down a weapon. The situation was grim. 

 

His enemy was still in the saddle. Aramis neatly sliced his sword into his opponent's leg, then threw himself under the animal's belly in order to avoid the rider's blade. However, he then found himself facing two other men who had already dismounted. He leaped forward in a desperate attempt to fend them off. The odds were not in his favor. In fact, even if he had been in top condition, the challenge would have been formidable

 

His rapier plunged deep into the man's side. Aramis quickly closed the distance between them, his other hand blocking the knife that was searching for his flesh. The blade sliced into his skin, and he knew the cut would hurt later. He managed to seize his injured opponent. Using the momentum of the wounded man, he lowered his body to the ground, using his enemy as a shield. The man screamed as his comrade’s sword sliced into his back instead of into Aramis.

 

However, he was too heavy, and Aramis fell to his knees. The other bandit could not come any closer, because the dying man was in the way. However, he still did his best to reach the musketeer. Aramis parried the attack aimed at his head. He knew that the man on horseback had his gun pointed at him. The marksman dove towards  the dying man, grasped his knife, and threw it at the gunman. The wild angle did not allow him to kill his opponent, but the shot went wide. He stepped aside as the other man attacked him, but he did not manage to take advantage of the opening in his opponent’s stance. His rapier only scratched the bandit’s arm.

 

The musketeer knew he would lose his life if he did not end the fight quickly. His still-healing body was aching, and he was panting heavily. Aramis feigned an attack on the bandit directly in front of him, but at the last moment, he turned the trajectory of his blade, leaving a deep cut on the man’s chest. He hoped that his opponent would be distracted by the injury. The marksman leaped forward, trying to finally reach his enemy. The bandit avoided the fatal blow. Aramis’ rapier succeeded only in leaving another gash on his flesh. The musketeer lost his balance. To his surprise, he dodged the blade aimed at his neck, but nothing could effectively stop his fall. He managed to trip up the bandit, and pulled the man down with him. One of his enemy's hands found the marksman's throat, and started to strangle him. The other hand clutched a main gauche, and attempted to stab him. Dark spots started to dance before his eyes. Aramis knew his chance of surviving such a fight were close to nil. In desperation, he seized the hilt of his dagger and embedded it in the bandit’s leg. The blade hit an artery, and blood spurted from the wound. Aramis finally managed to free himself from the man's grasp. However, his relief was short-lived. He suddenly knew that something was very wrong. He had forgotten about the man on horseback, who had now his reloaded pistol pointed at Aramis.

 

“Time to die, musketeer!”

Aramis knew he was probably about to die. In fact, he was sure death was near when the dagger left his hand. The shot rang out loudly. Aramis froze, waiting for the searing pain to hit his body, but it never came. The bandit slumped over on his horse. He then fell off his mount in slow motion, with one foot still caught in the stirrup.

 

Porthos was suddenly at his side. His gun was still pointed at the place where the now dead man had been a few seconds ago. Aramis released a shaky breath, then sank to the ground. He was exhausted, but he was safe. Porthos was here. He could allow himself a few moment's rest.

 

“Aramis!”

“Anne?” blurted out Aramis. 

Porthos knelt near him. “Safe and sound.”

The marksman finally relaxed.

 

“I need a medic!” A desperate yell penetrated into his consciousness. The noise did nothing to relieve his pounding headache.

He could feel a pair of hands on his chest. He opened his eyes.

 

_When did_   _I close them?_

 

He looked into Porthos’ face. His friend’s eyes were full of raw panic.

 

“You already have one in your arms. Isn't that enough?” Aramis inquired, teasing his friend gently. God, he was tired!

“I'd prefer to have a medic who is not trying to bleed out on me!” replied Porthos gruffly. “Aramis! Are you with me? How badly are you injured?!”

 

“I’m fine," the Spaniard mumbled reflexively. "Just--tired…”

“No! You’re dying on me!” Porthos' hands desperately searched for a wound to apply pressure to.

“Porthos, it's not my blood! One of the bandits bled out on me!”

The big man friend just shook his head, unable to believe it. He looked terrified.

 

“I’m fine! Just few bruises--and maybe a cut or two," Aramis added, remembering how he had stopped a knife with his hands. “Help me up please! I really need a bath." He struggled to get up by himself in order to force his brother to help him. He was grateful that Porthos immediately steadied him. The marksman felt uneasy when he saw how pale his friend was.

 

“Porthos?” He cupped his the big man's face with his hands. "What's wrong?" 

“I… I was sure you were dying, and I could do nothing to help you. Aramis, over the last few months, I have seen you severely wounded so many times… I was so afraid you would not survive.”

 

Aramis could see the toll that his wounds had taken on his brother, and he felt very guilty.  How could he have scared his friend so badly? Suddenly, he recalled Porthos pleading with him not to die.

 

“You played Death for me, and won," he murmured.  "I suppose you were cheating as usual?" 

“What?!”

“I heard what you said. And… I am alive because of you. I just… could not let go. It would have been too cruel to die on you.”

"Well, at least we agree on that point," said Porthos quietly, gently ruffling his hair.

 

Aramis wanted to lean into his brother’s embrace, but he remembered that he was covered in blood. He opted to instead to pat Porthos on the arm.

 

“We should check on our uninvited guests."  He gestured towards the bandits. "Then we need to head back. Did I mention that I desperately need a bath?"

“Along with a beautiful woman?” teased Porthos. Aramis stiffened.

 

_Why can't I hold the woman I love in my arms? Why am I so afraid of her touch?_

“Jesus!" muttered Porthos, “I just remembered that I sent Tannard for a medic. Athos will be in a panic.”

“Then we need to hurry up." Aramis took the opportunity to evade his thoughts.

 

He went to retrieve his weapons from the lifeless bodies. All the bandits were dead. Aramis knelt close to one of them. He closed the man's eyes, and whispered a prayer. He went from body to body, and said a short prayer over each. Meanwhile, Porthos searched the bodies.

 

“Mis!” Aramis looked up to see Porthos standing in front of him, holding a fistful of pendants. All five were in the shape of the fleur-de-lys.

 

The marksman cursed under his breath.

“Have you ever heard of bandits wearing something like that?” asked the dark skinned musketeer.

“No. But I don’t like the looks of it. We should bring them to Tréville," he muttered, suddenly too tired to stand. Porthos caught him, then supported him on the walk to his horse. The bandits' mounts were grazing close by.

 

“We should take those horses with us," suggested Aramis.  "Since I don't have Orage, I'll need to ride one of them anyway”.

“No! You'll be riding with me. It's a good idea to bring them with us, though.”

 

Aramis knew he should protest, but he could not find the strength to do so. He obediently mounted Nuage, then relaxed against Porthos when he felt his friend swing up behind him.

 

“Why am I not afraid of you?” Aramis asked suddenly. He could feel Porthos shrug.

“You trust me, right?”

“No… I mean yes! Of course I trust you…but I also trust her… and when she wanted to kiss me, I just could not bear it. Ever fiber of my being rejected her touch. It doesn't make any sense, Porthos!… I was abused by men! I thought about how much I had missed her… about how I am so unworthy of her... but when I think the same thing about you, I don’t panic when you touch me. And you are stronger than me! Even when I'm in good shape, I have little chance of beating you in hand to hand combat… So why am I fine with you, but when I'm with the woman I love, I'm terrified?"

 

“Mis, I'm not saying anything to encourage you to continue your romance with the Queen. Find another woman. An unmarried one.”

“I didn't ask for your advice on my choice of lover," growled Aramis. After all, it was obvious that Porthos was right. “I just want to understand my ridiculous reaction!”

 

“First of all, you know me better than her, and you've known me longer. We've survived many life and death situations together. Secondly, our relationship is not sexual. A third reason? I cannot order you to do anything. We are equals. Finally, from what you’ve told me, she made the first move at the convent… Aramis, she took advantage of your despair.”

“Don’t talk about her like that! She had my consent - my very enthusiastic consent, I might add.”

“I suggest you try again--with another woman. Pick a woman who is your equal--a woman who you can feel free to tell that you are interested in just dinner...not in dinner with breakfast in bed the next morning.  Oh, one more thing - make sure she doesn't have a husband who will accuse you of treason for sleeping with her. But I suppose the scenario I've described sounds very boring to you. As far as relationships are concerned, you live for drama, Aramis."

 

“Even if I listen to you, what am I supposed to do now?"

 

Aramis felt Porthos’ hand on his forehead.

“What are you doing?" the marksman inquired.

“Just checking to see if you’ve a got fever. Or perhaps the bandits gave you a concussion? You’re delirious, Mis! You're asking  _me_  for advice on your love life?!”

“I have hurt her, Porthos… I told her that they had broken me… I had hoped she would recoil with disgust… but she just said that she forgave me. How is that possible?!”

“I think I understand." There was a smile in Porthos’ voice.

 

Aramis leaned his head against his friend's arm. It was beyond him why he still had the gift of this amazing man's friendship.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Riversidewren. I thank also all my readers and reviews. Your presence means so much for me!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos' POV

Athos  
They were riding through the autumn forest. The road was wide, and quite good. They were rapidly nearing the palace gardens.

The Queen was sitting in front of him. He had wrapped her in his cloak when he had noticed her shivering.  
“Are you still cold, Your Majesty?” he asked gently.  
“No…” she whispered.  
He knew that she was afraid for the father of her child, but he had to focus on getting her to safety. He would worry about Aramis later.

He suddenly heard a horse galloping towards them. He cursed under his breath, and glanced behind him, prepared for a desperate ride in order to keep the Queen safe. He relaxed when he saw it was Tannard. The musketeer slowed down as he neared his lieutenant.

“Porthos sent me to fetch a medic. Aramis is badly wounded!"

The Queen gasped. Athos could feel her body stiffen against him.  
“Go!” he ordered. Tannard instantly obeyed him.

“It’s all my fault!" Anne's voice was so soft...so vulnerable.  
“No! The bandits are to blame. Aramis is strong. He’ll be fine.” Athos wanted so badly to put more conviction into his voice--to be able to actually believe what he was saying.

They finally arrived at the palace. He dismounted, then helped the Queen down. Anne leaned onto his arm in order to keep the weight off her injured leg.  
“I want to wait for my husband. I’m worried about his safety," she told him, a somber look on her face. He knew that she really wanted to wait for Aramis, but he made no comment. He was somewhat surprised when she requested that he stay with her.

They sat in the corner of the big hall near the fireplace. That spot allowed them a bit of privacy without raising the suspicions of curious onlookers.  
“What happened to him?” she asked quietly. He saw the anguish in her eyes, and tried to think of a response.

“Your Majesty… it’s not my story to tell. But I beg you not to question Aramis.”

Her eyes glistened with tears. “He told me they had broken him…”

He shook his head. It was not true! Every image he had seen--every sound he had heard--was seared into his memory. The last thing he would say was that Aramis had been broken.

A broken man would not have been able to perform surgery on his protégé.  
A broken man would not have been able to help them escape.  
A broken man would have died in the river.

“No. He merely did what they wanted in order to save d’Artagnan…”  
“What did they want from him?”  
“I cannot tell you, Your Majesty.”  
Her chin lifted. “And if I order you to tell me?”  
“Then you will have to punish me for disobedience.”  
“Why?!" she burst out, barely able to contain the emotion in her trembling voice. "Why do you want to hide the truth from me?!”

Athos’ eyes met the Queen’s gaze. He hesitated only for an instant.  
“Do you really want the truth, Your Majesty?” he asked, his voice husky.  
“Yes!"

He knew what he had to say. He hated the thought of doing it, but he had to do it for Anne’s sake. For Aramis’ sake. For their child. Nonetheless, it was cruel.

“The man you knew died there. I… saw it happen. You must let him go, Your Majesty. Please, treat him as you would any musketeer…”  
“You didn't say that to Constance!” Her voice was full of pain.  
“No, I didn't. While I do not approve of my protégé's dalliance with a married woman, Madame Bonacieux risks only her reputation. If she finds that risk acceptable…” His voice trailed off. He could see that Anne understood what was left unsaid.

“I cannot bear to see him in such pain…”

“Your Majesty, you cannot nurse him back to health. I promise you that we will do our best to help him.”

And it may not be enough.

“Let him go," he repeated, his voice firm, but kind. “It will be better for everyone if you do."

She wanted to respond, but at that moment, he heard the clatter of horses in the courtyard. He hastily excused himself, and ran outside. His heart sank when he saw Aramis lying in Porthos’ arms. In the bright light of the pale winter sun, his friend seemed to be covered in blood. However, Porthos appeared calm, not despondent or terrified. When his gaze met Athos', he smiled. The lieutenant closed his eyes in relief.

“If my services are not needed here, I will see to the Queen," said the doctor, glancing at Porthos. "But if you change your mind, my friend, just come and fetch me.”

“Thank you, doctor." The dark skinned musketeer smiled. "If I need your help, I'll just knock him out and call for you. I apologize for summoning you so urgently."

Aramis opened his eyes, and drowsily looked around.  
“The Queen?” he asked, his voice betraying his anxiety.   
“The physician will take care of her leg," murmured Athos. He made sure that the marksman understood the message that was implicit in his gaze.  
“May I leave then?” he asked, his face betraying his fatigue. His leader knew that Porthos was the only thing keeping Aramis on his feet.  
“Go. I’ll join you shortly."  
He watched his friends leave. He needed to talk to Aramis. However, he knew that Porthos was unlikely to leave the marksman's side anytime soon. He was not sure if the big man knew that Aramis had committed treason by sleeping with the Queen. He hoped that he did not. That would make one less person for the gallows.

He checked on d’Artagnan. The boy was busy in the stables, combing Nuit’s mane.  
“When you’re ready, come up and to eat something," he ordered. D'Artagnan nodded.  
Athos sighed, and returned to the Palace.

When he first saw her, he was sure he was dreaming. She was dressed in an exquisite ivory gown, and was so ethereally beautiful. So perfect.  
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice hoarse.  
“A woman cannot refuse her King when he requests her presence," she answered, clearly amused by his bewilderment.  
His eyes narrowed. “I thought I told you I’d kill you if you ever came back to Paris.”  
“Technically, we are not in Paris.” She gave him a triumphant smile.

Athos just could not accept the fact that another man was making love to his former wife. Even if it was the King. No, especially if it was the King!

She was so beautiful. He missed her so much, and yet he hated her so fiercely. He so desperately needed to ask her one question. But how would he ever know if she was telling him the truth?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Riversidewren!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' POV

Porthos

 

Aramis sat stiffly on the bad. Fortunately, this time the marksman had accurately assessed his condition – there were only two shallow cuts, and multiple bruises. Nonetheless, the cuts needed to be stitched up.

 

“I'll call the doctor," offered Porthos.

“No. Just stitch it up....or give me my kit and I’ll do it.”

“Mis… it’s not smart to do the sewing yourself when someone else is available to do it. Don’t glare at me! You're the one who always says so!”

The medic huffed, but did not protest when Porthos readied the needle. He laid down, burying his face in the bed.

Porthos chuckled. “I know...my technique is hopeless. You can't even stand to watch!"

 

A soft knock at the door made Porthos frown. They were sharing this room with their brothers, and none of them would feel the need to knock. 

“Come in," he murmured, well aware that Aramis, who was partially hidden by him, had his gun aimed at the door.

 

Constance came in.

“How are you? I heard about the fight!”

“God has answered my prayers by sending you, Madame!” Porthos saw fear appear in her eyes, so he reassured her quickly. “Don't worry. We’re fine! D’Artagnan is in the stables, and Athos is probably busy organizing a defense or--an investigation. For the moment, I’m not exactly sure how to classify the attack which took place.”

 

“So why are you so happy to see me?” she inquired, curiosity replacing the worry in her eyes.“If you are hungry, you don’t need me to obtain a meal from the kitchen. A feast is planned for this evening."

 

The big man took Constance aside. "Actually, could you help me out by sewing him up? I'd rather not have to listen to him grumble about the scars I’m about to make." He glanced at Aramis and raised his voice. "Because you know that scars are always blamed on the person who does the sewing..not on the person who managed to get himself wounded or inflicted the injury!"

 

“Well, usually the one responsible for causing the wounds isn't around, so you can't be mad at them. Besides, it's not a good idea carry a grudge against the dead.”  Aramis joined the conversation, although Porthos had thought he was already asleep.

 

Constance smiled.

“I like to sew, so I am more than happy to prick you with a needle, Monsieur Aramis”

 

Aramis did not protest. He fell asleep before Constance even finished. She looked worriedly at Porthos.

“Will he be alright?”

“He'll be fine," replied Porthos firmly.

 

_He_ _**has**  to be alright._

Constance excused herself, and left the room. Porthos decided to see what he could find to eat in the kitchen. However, when he stood up, Aramis moved over to the edge of the bed. He seemed to be looking for Porthos’ warm, reassuring touch. When he failed to find it, he started to search more frantically, tossing restlessly in his sleep. Porthos reached out and stroked his hair. The effect was instantaneous . The marksman leaned into his hand, and calmed down immediately. The big man was not sure if he should be relieved or worried by this behavior. One thing was sure – he needed to stay with his brother. He started to clean his doublet.

 

He had nearly finished when the door opened. Athos came in, bearing a tray of food. He was followed by Tréville. Porthos prepared to stand up when he saw his commanding officer, but the Captain gestured for Porthos to stay where he was.

 

The commotion woke up Aramis, who immediately rolled to the floor. He came up balanced on one knee, and pointed his pistol at the newcomers.

 

“Sit down, Aramis”, ordered the Captain.  Porthos could see bitter amusement in his eyes.

 

“The evidence you collected is very disturbing. I heard whispers of a group calling itself the True Musketeers a few years ago. However, I never come across any proof that they actually existed. They were said to be against the Spanish Queen. The pendants you found suggest that the group is rather large. In fact, I have two parties searching the forest right now. However, I doubt they will find anything. I have tried to persuade to the King to return to Paris, but to no avail. You will be expected to attend the dinner tonight. We cannot rule out that this group plans to attack during the event.”

 

“We are prepared to do our duty," replied Athos firmly. The Captain nodded, then left.

 

“Anne… Milady... she is here…” whispered Athos, staring at the floor.

“As…?”, asked Porthos, squeezing his arm in a comforting manner.

“The King’s lover." Athos’ voice was distant.

 

Aramis cursed.

“Do you think she has something to do with these bandits?” asked Porthos.

“Possibly. The Queen’s death won’t change Milady’s status--provided that her aim is to be the King's lover. However, she may be using her position in order to infiltrate his inner circle. We have to protect the Queen…”

“Was the Queen very shaken by the assault?” asked Aramis.

“No. She was worried about her champion. She asked about you," Athos replied.

 Aramis went deathly pale. "What did you say?"

“I told her to forget about you.”

 

The Spaniard buried his face in his hands. 

“She can’t know!” he mumbled.

“I won’t tell her," promised Athos.

 

They ate, then got ready for the ceremony that evening. Just as they were leaving the room, d'Artagnan joined them.

“Have you eaten?" asked Aramis.

“Yes. Constance took care of it," muttered d’Artagnan.

 

When they reached the official rooms, a crowd was already gathered. Obviously, the room was much smaller than a similar one in the Louvre. The musketeers stood against the wall, and tried to remain alert for any potential threat.

 

Porthos was grateful to have Aramis at his side. Even at less than his best, the marksman was still the most perceptive of them all.

 

Everyone bowed when the royal couple arrived. The Queen was supported by Constance. Milady was walking at the King's side. She appeared to be bursting with pride at having achieved the position of royal mistress. Porthos almost growled when he thought about Athos and the pain he must be experiencing.

 

The King and his women took their place at the table. The other courtiers joined them. Only the musketeers and the servants were left standing. Porthos knew it would be a long night.

 

“If you want to go to bed early, Aramis, you plan to faint," murmured Porthos.

 Aramis scowled. "Not a chance! I'm no lady in distress!" He wanted to add something, but he suddenly froze. His hand gripped Porthos’ arm, and squeezed it with a strength that was ferocious.

 

“What’s wrong?” Porthos was alarmed. His brother was deathly pale.

“It's Allancourt!” whispered the medic, nodding towards the other side of the room.

 

Porthos looked in that direction.

“Which one?” he asked.

Aramis gave a short description of the man in question.

 

Suddenly, a commotion broke out.

Allancourt!” D’Artagnan shouted, running towards the nobleman. “For what you did to my brother, I challenge you to a duel!"

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Riversidewren.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d'Artagnan's POV

D'Artagnan 

  
Silence reigned in the room. All eyes were directed towards d'Artagnan. He appeared confident, and never let his gaze stray from the Comte. He dared not glance at his mentor or the Captain, as he knew they would be bitterly disappointed with him.

 The Comte bowed graciously to the King. "Your Majesty, with your permission? May I speak to this musketeer?" Louis granted his consent with an impatient wave of his hand.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan, I presume? I am afraid you have mistaken me for someone else. I heard about your unfortunate abduction and your... brother - Monsieur Aramis. Please accept my deepest sympathy for the maltreatment you suffered at the hands of your captors. However, I can assure you that I had nothing whatsoever to do with your ordeal."

  
 "You're lying! You were there!  You gave the order to break us!"  
"What reason would I have to do such a thing?"  
"Your sister's death!"  
"My dear sister's deeds sealed her fate. It broke my heart but... she was beyond help. She was completely mad..."  
"Enough!" The King was bored. "You can talk this over tomorrow, on your own time. D'Artagnan has been assigned to stand guard outside.  Unless you wish to have him punished for his accusations, Comte?"

  
"Your Majesty, it would be cruel to punish the boy for his heartache."  
"Very well. You have your duty, d'Artagnan." The King waved his hand. "Proceed with the feast!" 

D'Artagnan bowed and left. He was trembling. What had he hoped to gain by challenging the Comte?! Had he really believed he had a chance to kill him?! He was not sure. However, he knew that he could not stand being in the same room as this man.

The chilly air gave him a bit of a reprieve. He leaned his forehead against a cold marble column on the terrace, then headed towards the gardens. The area was already shrouded in darkness. The moon offered very little light, and a cold wind was blowing. Flickering torches marked the places where guards were stationed The Gascon did not want to have to talk to anyone. He was not a part of a regular patrol. After a while, he started to walk along the palace wall. He heard the faint strains of music when he passed by the dining room. Then there was only silence, broken here and there by the rustle of dry leaves.   
He caught a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision . He stopped, and listened.  Someone was hiding in the bushes.

"Come out and face me!" he shouted.  
A shot was only answer he received. He felt a searing pain in his side, but ignored it, charging ahead while calling out a warning to other guards.

He immediately found himself fighting with two opponents. They seemed to be quite experienced. D'Artagnan knew that he should take the time to analyze their movements, rather than just plunging ahead with his thrusts. However, the violent strength of his attacks resulted in one man losing his footing. When his attacker fell, d'Artagnan managed to slice a deep gash in his neck. The man screamed, losing his grip on his sword as he reflexively clutched at his neck, feeling his lifeblood flowing out of his body.

The other man counted on the musketeer becoming distracted. The opposite occurred, and his blade met d'Artagnan's main gauche instead of finding his flesh. The boy used the momentum of the attack to turn around in a graceful circle. He slashed at the bandit's leg, and the man fell to his knees. 

D'Artagnan heard approaching footsteps.   
He put the tip of his sword at the man's throat.   
"Tell me who sent you!" he growled.  
The bandit smiled. It seemed too late for the musketeer to realize his mistake. However, d'Artagnan sensed something was wrong, and immediately dove to the ground. The blade which was meant to end up embedded deep in his lower back only managed to nick him in the side. The musketeer rolled over, and pulled out his gun. His shot caught the attacker in the guts. The man curled up, moaning in agony. Meanwhile, the bandit with the injured leg had escaped.

"Who sent you?" the musketeer demanded, grasping the dying man by the collar. "Give me the name, and I will spare you more suffering. Your injury is fatal, and you know it!"

  
 "I am a True Musketeer, scum!"

  
 "Is Allancourt your leader?"

  
 The wounded man gave him a bloody smirk. D'Artagnan was sure that the bandit had little respect for the Comte.

“What do you aim to do?”

“To save France--and the King!”

“King Louis?!” D’Artagnan was shocked. Why were these men endangering the very person they wanted to save?

“Do we have another King?” The wounded man wheezed out a chuckle, then started to cough. The coughing obviously heightened his pain, as choked screams passed through his lips.

D’Artagnan was suddenly aware of other musketeers standing behind him. He remained kneeling at the side of the wounded bandit.

“I’ve sent for Doctor Deroux, but I'm afraid that nothing can be done," said Etienne. “I didn't even know you were out here.”

“King’s orders…” D'Artagnan hesitated for a moment. “I tried to challenge Allancourt, and ended up here," he added.

“So the King was in a good mood. I suppose we have his new lover to thank for it. You are lucky you weren't whipped.”

The wounded man clutched at d’Artagnan's  hand.

“I know your dirty little secret, musketeers’ whore. Everyone will know soon. You’re done for--you and Aramis. There is no honor left in you!”

D’Artagnan punched him. Then he grasped his shirt.

“Who is your leader?!” he growled. The dying man shivered.

“You’ll never find out…” he whispered.

D’Artagnan pressed on the wound. The bandit screamed out in agony, then lost consciousness. The Gascon remained at his side until the physician made him move out of the way.

“He’s dying." Deroux confirmed Etienne’s hunch. “There is nothing I can do for him. But I can take care of you," he added, staring at the boy.

“I’m fine,"  muttered d’Artagnan.

“I suggest that we leave him in the capable hands of Monsieur Aramis. He has a lot of experience with stubborn musketeers," observed Etienne.

“It appears that your friend will be on duty all night. Sorry, son, but you are stuck with me," replied Deroux seriously.

D’Artagnan closed his eyes. The doctor reminded him so much of his father. That thought brought back painful memories. He bit his lip until he tasted blood, then allowed the physician to tend to his wound.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riversidewren, thank you.
> 
> Please remember – your reviews make my day!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos' POV

Athos

 

He was horrified when d’Artagnan challenged Allancourt. He knew that the comte was quite skilled with a blade. In his weakened state, d'Artagnan did not stand a chance against the nobleman. He preferred not to think about what it would mean for the boy to lose the duel-- assuming that he would survive it. However, Allancourt's false show of generosity sickened him. It was obvious that the man had gained the admiration of many of the courtiers with his "compassion and understanding" towards the “poor, confused boy."  Athos could hardly stand to hear the courtiers talking about d’Artagnan in that way.

 

He glanced at Aramis, who looked as if he was struggling to fight off an impeding panic attack. Athos cursed under his breath.

 

“It’s better that our Gascon was sent out to the gardens instead of having to stay here," he said soothingly to the Spaniard. The words were barely out of his mouth when they heard muffled shots and screams. They took up their positions with the skill and speed forged from the years of protecting the royal couple. Athos could swear that he heard d’Artagnan yelling at his enemies. He prayed that the boy had remained unscathed.

 

The queen cast a troubled glance towards them. He was sure that her eyes were searching for Aramis’, but the marksman was too busy trying to discern any possible threat looming in the darkness outside.

 

After several minutes, Tannard stormed in.

“Your Majesty, Captain!  The bandits were dealt with. However, we require the physician’s assistance.”

 

“Deroux, your aid is needed." The King waved towards the doctor. He must have seen Aramis’ readiness to follow the medic, as Louis stopped him with a few terse words, reminding him that his duty was to remain in that room and protect his king.

 

Aramis had no choice but to obey.

 

Tréville talked with Tannard for a while, and then he smiled reassuringly at Athos. The former comte guessed that d’Artagnan was either not injured or that his injuries were so minor that he had managed to hide them. Still, this meant he was not critically wounded.

 

The king insisted on returning to the feast. He gestured for Allancourt to approach him, and they started to talk.

 

Athos' eyes roved from one person to another. He did not really expect any of the courtiers to attack the king---or rather the queen---but he could not totally exclude such a possibility. His gaze roamed to the walls and to the entrance, then came back to the table and… he flinched. The queen's face was deathly pale, and he was sure that the woman was struggling with some kind of illness or wound. He looked towards his brothers, who recognized the warning in his eyes,and closed in on the table.

 

The queen whispered something to her husband, then she bowed to him and left hurriedly. Constance was supporting her. Athos moved quickly, positioning himself in front of her.

 

“May I accompany you to your rooms?” he asked, bowing slightly.

She nodded her assent, and he noticed she was trembling.

 

“Should I call Doctor Deroux?” he asked worriedly.

 

“No… I… I… just feel a little sick… I am so sorry to disturb you…”

 

“It is my duty to protect you, Your Majesty," he replied swiftly.

 

She stopped suddenly.

“Is it true?!”

As she asked him, her eyes were pleading for his denial.

 

He had no idea what she was referring to, but he felt his heart beating wildly.

 “I have no idea what you are asking about, Your Highness," he replied honestly.

She shook her head, as if in a torment.

 

He paused for a moment, then said softly, “I am afraid that there are people who want you dead-- because you are Spanish."

 

“I am not exactly surprised.” She acted as if she did not care. The information even seemed to help her regain her composure.

 

“That is why I must ask you something.  Do you think you have been poisoned?"

 

“No!” she replied firmly, then changed the subject.  “Is it true? What Allancourt said?!"

Athos looked around to ensure that they were alone.

 

“No, Your Majesty, but unfortunately we have no real proof that he is lying. However, there is no question that he seeks vengeance for his sister’s death.”

 

“How did she die?”

 

“She took her own life in a prison cell. She was accused of plotting against the King, and I am sure she would have been  condemned to death.”

 

“But you arrested her--so he blames you her death,” she concluded.

He nodded.

 

She shivered, then closed her eyes.

“He said…” her voice was trembling, and Athos felt a desperate urge to stop her from speaking. He did not want to hear her next words. However, he remained by her side. He saw Constance’s eyes, wide with horror, pleading with him to do something.

 

To do anything.

To stop time and rewind it.

To make this whole evening only a nightmare.

 

Or maybe those were his desperate thoughts. Maybe he was pleading with her.

 

“The king started to muse about the reason for d’Artagnan’s violent reaction, as neither he nor Aramis were mutilated and…  simple torture should not affect his best soldiers in such a way--" she was citing  Louise’s words.  “… The comte suggested that they might have been… abused… the way women can be by men." She flushed with embarrassment, then lifted her gaze from the floor and looked into Athos’ eyes. When she saw the turmoil she felt reflected there, she flinched, then took a step back.

 

“It  _is_  true!” she whispered, and stumbled. Athos caught her.

 

“You should lie down, Your Highness," he murmured, his heart in his throat. "You don’t look well.”

 

“No… I told my husband I just need some fresh air." She leaned her forehead against the window.

 

“I must insist that you retire to your rooms, Your Majesty. You are ill, and you need rest. I will accompany you there, and then Constance can take care of you while I fetch the doctor."

 

He needed to warn Aramis. Athos feared for the marksman. He also wanted to allow the queen some time to process the information that she was never supposed to have received.

 

The queen finally agreed. Athos left her in her room under Constance’s care. He sent a servant to call the doctor, then returned to the dining room.

 

He approached the Captain, and explained that the queen had taken ill, and she needed to remain in her rooms until the physician had a chance to examine. He knew that Tréville guessed there was more to the story, but he also knew that this was not the place to offer a further explanation.  

 

The king seemed to be too busy giggling with Milady to notice his wife’s absence. In this situation, that was helpful. However, Athos could hardly bear to watch his wife seducing another man. In the next moment, she cast a glance in his direction, and her gorgeous green eyes met his. She smiled at him triumphantly, then turned her attention back to Louis.

 

Athos could not turn away from her. He drank in her image, and felt his heart breaking.

 

“Athos?” Aramis placed his hand on his friend's arm. “Don’t look at her! You remind me of a moth flying towards the flame.”

 

“I’m standing. I’m not moving towards her," he said quietly.

 

“That's good to know," whispered Aramis.

 

He seemed to be in quite a good mood. Or rather, he was in the mood that Athos had learned to recognize recently as quite good.

 

“I’m not surprised that the queen left," the marksman added.

 

Athos felt sick.

 

Aramis glanced at him. “What’s wrong with you? Maybe it’s better for you to patrol the gardens… then at least you won't have to look at her.”

 

Athos closed his eyes for a moment. Those words were his advice for Aramis as far as the queen was concerned.

 

There was a commotion at the table. The king had decided to leave with his mistress. He was giggling again, clearly amused by the beautiful woman at his side.

 

The room started to empty out. Tréville gestured towards the Inseparables to follow him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his expression somber.

 

“Allancourt suggested the reason for d’Artagnan’s behavior… the real reason.... and… the queen found their conversation sickening," Athos explained.

 

He heard Aramis gasp.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Anne knows. Are you happy with that?
> 
> Thank you, Riversidewren!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treville's POV

"Follow me!" he barked, not even looking at his men. The situation was quickly spiraling out of control.  
“Porthos, fetch d’Artagnan! He is with Deroux. Then you will all join me in my room. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir!” replied the big man. He ran off to fulfill his mission. Athos and Aramis followed him. They knew all too well that there was no time for questions. Not yet.

The Captain entered his room, and lit the candles gracing the beautiful candelabra. It depicted the hunt of the goddess Diana. So much silver had been used to create this object. It should have been beautiful and subtle, but it was anything but modest. And Tréville felt that this impression extended to the entire royal household – there was no place for subtlety here.

He waited until Athos had closed the door. Both men were standing at attention, but Aramis’ eyes betrayed his despair. In one swift motion, the Captain shoved his marksman against the wall and grasped hold of his shirt.

“I don’t want to hear a word about you trying to resign! If you disappear, I am going to call you a deserter! Do you understand me?!”

Aramis merely nodded. The Captain felt relieved when he did not see any hint of fear in his medic's eyes. He did not want to take advantage of one of his best men in this way.

“Good." His voice was soft as he stepped back.

Aramis wanted to speak, but Tréville silenced him with a quick gesture.

“Over the years, I have dealt with a variety of accusations that have been thrown at you. You have been called a whore by jealous husbands. You have been accused of espionage by envious Red Guards. It has also been said that you were a coward because you survived Savoy. You were aware of all of these comments, but I am quite sure that none of this gossip was the reason for you to consider quitting the musketeers. I have never thought that you were either a traitor or a coward, although I cannot deny that the cuckolded husbands were right to be upset with you. However, you have never paid any attention to any of these accusations--even when you were actually at fault!"

A knock at the door interrupted him.  
“Come in!" he growled.

Porthos and d’Artagnan entered, and stood expectantly near Athos. He knew that they trying to figure out what was going on. 

"So," he continued, glaring at Aramis, "I expect you to ignore any comments which are made regarding your reputation. You will sacrifice your personal pride in order to keep the Queen and France safe. Is that clear?” he barked, glaring at Aramis,

“Yes, sir.”

He saw the questions-- and the doubt--in the marksman's eyes.  
“You may ask me one question," he added, almost as a benevolent afterthought.

Aramis licked his lips. It seemed as if he was searching for cuts. Then he spoke, his voice hesitant and low.  
“How is it that you are not disturbed by this, sir?”

He gazed at Aramis intently. He knew that his answer held great significance for this young soldier.

“What happened to you is just a kind of torture that is used to deprive someone of his dignity--because when the prisoner loses his feeling of self-worth, it is easier to manipulate him. But you did not obey them. You saved your brother and escaped. You are not the first man to be abused this way, Aramis, and I doubt that you will be the last. I have known men who survived it, and I have known those who perished. But I will not lose any more men to Allancourt! The same goes for you, d’Artagnan!” He stared at his youngest musketeer.

“I will not tolerate any more attempts to challenge Allancourt. I want you to work to find evidence against him--proof which the King will have to accept!"

“Captain, with your permission…” d’Artagnan was not displaying the self-confidence that Tréville wanted to see in him. As his commander remained impassive, the boy continued.

“I tried to question the dying bandit. He said he knew the details of… our ordeal. However, I am quite sure that he had no respect for Allancourt.”

“And how do you feel about some people knowing the details of what you went through?” Tréville asked briskly.  
D’Artagnan shrugged.  
“I’m used to hearing jokes about me and Inseparables, so I don’t mind…”

Porthos chuckled, and the Captains suddenly guessed the reason for some of the fights with the Red Guards. It was not important at the moment, but the boy’s attitude relieved him. He demanded a report from d’Artagnan. Then he listened to Athos as he recounted the details of his conversation with the Queen.

He could not bear to think about the way Anne was being treated. Obviously, kings had mistresses, but usually they did not flaunt them in public while requiring their wife to sit at the same table. He knew how worried the Queen was about her sick son, and how much she had wanted to stay in Paris by his side. There was no compelling reason for her to be present other than the fact her husband wanted her – his toy – here. Enough! Treville's own thoughts suddenly seemed to him to be too close to betrayal.

“You are my best men. I hope that you will find the threat and take care of it. And… one more thing--don’t get yourselves killed!”

“Yessir," they replied, a little too quietly for his liking.

“Good. Now, eat and sleep. I don’t think I will need you before nine o’clock. You need to rest. All of you. You’re dismissed.”

They left. He poured a glass of fine wine, then sat down in a chair. His eyes traced the flickering flames in the fireplace. He was tired, and suddenly felt too old for all of this. He hoped he had managed somehow to help Aramis get over his fears, but he was far from certain he had succeeded. He knew how easy it could be to break his marksman instead of reinforcing his self-confidence.

He finished his glass, then lay down. He was soon fast asleep. However, his dark thoughts and the howling wind made his sleep uneasy.

Aramis' dead face--without eyes. Porthos’ accusing gaze. Athos holding a dying d’Artagnan in his arms. The boy had taken his own life.

He knew those nightmares all too well. They had visited him every night since Pierre had come to report about Aramis.

He was not asleep when someone knocked at the door. He found himself reaching for his weapon before letting the door. He scolded himself silently – he had thought that Aramis was overreacting, and now he was doing the exact same thing.

He unlocked the door, then bowed reflexively upon seeing the King.

“My wife has been poisoned!" The monarch's voice was shrill. "I want you to fix this, Tréville! Save her, find the murderer, then tell me who did it!"

Louis looked devastated. He was trembling, and his eyes were pleading with his Captain.

“I’ll do my best, Your Majesty. May I speak to the Queen--or to Doctor Deroux?”  
“You may do whatever you need to do! Just fix it!” There was a note of hysteria in the King’s voice, “Oh, and fetch that medic of yours! He was so eager to treat the wounded yesterday. I'll give him a chance to display his skill. But if my wife dies, he will be executed!”

“Sire, Aramis has some knowledge of battlefield medicine, but he has no experience with poison!”

He remembered all too well how Aramis had panicked when Athos had been poisoned. They had nearly lost their swordsman then. Tréville would never forget how he had feared for Athos' life--and he would never forget the young herbwoman who had cured him. Most herbwomen knew more about toxic plants and their antidotes than any of his musketeers, including Aramis, did.

“It doesn’t matter! I want my wife alive and well! And back to her beautiful self! Right now, she is repulsive!” The monarch was now reminding him of a spoiled child.

Milady suddenly appeared at the King's side. "Your Majesty… may I help ease your distress?” She curtsied, giving him a sensual smile.

“Milady! You always know how to make me feel better." The King sighed, then gave her his hand. As they walked away, the Captain let his gaze settle on them-- especially on her.

Did Milady have a reason to kill the Queen?

Tréville sighed, then he went to see his men. He knocked on their door, and it quickly flew open.  
Athos looked at him quizzically.  
“Good morning, sir."  
“It's anything but good. The Queen has been poisoned. The King wants us to save her and track down the guilty party. Aramis, he wants you to help Doctor Deroux. He has decided that your life will be forfeit if she dies.”

His marksman's face had turned white when he had heard that Anne had been poisoned. Once again, the Captain became suspicious about the nature of Aramis’ feelings for the Queen. But he had no time to think about that now.

“Meet me in the Queen's rooms-quickly!" he added, leaving them to dress.  
With a heavy heart, he knocked on the Queen's door. Only silence answered him. He started to fear the worst, but then a servant told him that the doctor had decided to transfer the Queen to Constance’s room. He was afraid that the poison might still be present in the royal bedroom.

Tréville entered the other room, then stopped, horrified. Anne was lying in Constance’s arms. She had obviously just been sick. The air was thick with the smell of vomit. The young queen was covered in sweat, and she was gasping for breath. He could see fear in her slightly unfocused eyes.

“I know I’m disgusting, Captain. Please forgive me!" She was nearly in tears. He went to her immediately, ignoring the doctor, who was staring at the contents of the bucket.

“I gave her Majesty an emetic as soon as Constance fetched me," Deroux mumbled.

“Captain!" Anne’s voice was full of fear. “Athos… asked me if I thought I might have been poisoned earlier. I didn’t then…”

“Did you eat or drink anything after the feast?” he asked, gently taking her hand.

“No… why can’t I feel your touch?” she whispered, clearly terrified.

“We’ll help you. Trust me, Anne," he said, using her first name in order to try to calm her. It was against all etiquette, but as her husband was busy pleasing himself in the hour of his wife's need, Treville felt justified.

She nodded. She was shivering, her teeth chattering.

“What did you do after you returned to your rooms?”

“I… spoke for a bit with Doctor Deroux… and then… with Constance and… I felt fine…well, not fine… I was shocked… but not ill… Then I… prayed… and suddenly I was so tired… and it was late so… I… I… just went to sleep… and when I woke up… I felt strange… I wanted to get up, but I couldn’t… so I called for Constance. I am going to die, aren't I?!”

"We’ll save you, Your Majesty." Tréville heard Aramis’ calm voice. He had not even realized that the marksman had entered the room. Aramis was holding Anne’s hand while he checked her pulse.

She tried to smile.  
“My… champion… I trust you…” she whispered.

She tried to cling to Tréville, but her hands were weak. He was used to the crushing grip of wounded men, and there was no strength in her grip. He knew that it was not because she was a woman--it was because the poison was acting quickly. He was terrified when he realized how much she had worsened in the few minutes he had been with her.

“Don’t leave me!" she begged.

Deroux gave her something to drink. She dutifully swallowed it, but was barely conscious.  
“Don’t leave me," she repeated, her voice becoming slurred.

The Captain was not sure if she was speaking to him or to Aramis. But he decided it would be better for everyone to assume that she was pleading with him.

“Do you know how to treat this poison?” he asked the medics.

Deroux shook his head.  
“Not unless you can tell me what poison it is… Monsieur Aramis, do you have any ideas?”

“Yes. We need to catch the person who did this, and find out what he gave her!” he growled.

“Then do it!” ordered Tréville, deciding to stay with the Queen. He eventually would have to leave her in the care of Constance, but at the moment, she obviously needed him. She needed an anchor, and it was clear that only a man would do. It should be have been her husband's job, but now it was his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the enemy has made his move.  
> Riversidewren, thank you :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

Aramis

He was not really aware that he was walking through corridors lined with beautiful paintings.

Normally he would pay attention to the regal ladies watching him from the pictures.

Normally he would appreciate still lifes painted by Flemish masters.

Not now. To be honest, he did not know exactly how he had reached the door of their room. He felt numb. The Captain’s orders had been clear. Aramis suddenly was not at all sure that he would be able to avoid failing his commander.

The door before him opened, and he was propelled towards the nearest bed. He sat down heavily, and hid his face in his hands. His friends remained silent. When he needed so badly to be distracted…no one would say anything! He was trembling, and dimly sensed that someone had tucked a blanket around him.

  

“Aramis?” Porthos’ voice reached him. "Drink." 

 A cup was placed in his hands. He drained it quickly. The fact that the liquid was wine barely registered in his brain. He could not find the strength to look his brothers in the eyes, so he stared at his empty cup instead.

 “Aramis?” Porthos gently cupped his friend's face in his hands, and forced the marksman to look at him. “What are you really afraid of?” he asked quietly.

“I am ashamed--not afraid! … Well… I am afraid of constantly being reminded of what happened… I did everything they wanted! I cooperated completely! I…”

“Aramis, you sacrificed yourself in order to save d’Artagnan! You… gave everything you could. No oath forbade you to make this decision. I know you fear that you might have let some important information slip, but we have been in similar situations-many times! Do you remember the story you gave the bandits near Lyon? When they threatened to shoot me if you didn't tell them what they wanted to know? From what I remember, you were quite proud of how you kept your wits about you then. They believed you, and we both survived. So don’t tell me you’re a traitor!”

Aramis knew that Porthos was right, but that fact did not quiet his emotional turmoil.

“Do you think less of d’Artagnan because he was raped?” snapped Porthos.  Aramis visibly flinched, and looked around the room. They were alone.

  

“Where…?”

  

“They went for some food. Answer me!!”

“How could I?!”

  

“Good. So…what it boils down to is that some people will not pay any attention to the gossip, some will laugh at you and avoid you, and for some it will mean nothing. And by that I mean that they may sympathize with you, but the knowledge of what happened won’t change their respect for you. They will treat you just the same.”

  

Aramis stared at his friend, completely stunned. 

_How could it be so simple? Yet so difficult in the meantime?_

“Did the events you witnessed change your attitude towards d’Artagnan?” Porthos asked, his voice softer now.

“No! We have talked about it many times!” Aramis growled. He had had enough of this conversation. He was visibly relieved when the door opened and his two other brothers appeared with a tray of food. They put it on the table in front of him, then sat by him on the bed.

  

Athos gave him a plate of cheese and meat. Aramis wanted to protest, but he knew that he needed to eat.  When he realized that the others had started with some soup, he was grateful that he had a plate in his hands.

  

Another stupid thing which he could not overcome! He stared bitterly at Porthos' bowl.

  

The dark skinned man sat back, and looked at him closely, his expression serious. “Would you rather I not eat it?” 

Aramis was touched, and somewhat shocked. He just gazed at his friend.

“Porthos, are you ready to…”  He stopped, then just shook his head, smiling warmly at his brother. Porthos shrugged. He finished his bowl quickly, then reached for a plate of food.

  

After eating, Aramis insisted on checking on d’Artagnan’s wounds. The boy tried to protest, but Athos’ scowl was enough to force him to cooperate. As Aramis changed the bandages, he felt unspoken questions hanging in the air. However, he knew that his brothers would be able to tell from his body language that the boy's injuries were rather minor, and did not look infected.

  

“I’ll check it in the morning, before our muster.  Barring any infection, you should be fine.”

“So your diagnosis confirms Doctor Deroux's. What a shock!" commented d’Artagnan sarcastically, annoyed by their medic’s tendency to act like a mother hen.

  

“I'll take that as a compliment," Aramis replied, feeling more normal than he had in some time. He gently ruffled his brother’s hair, and was astonished when the boy leaned into his touch. He could see the trust in those hazel eyes. D'Artagnan was looking at him with a hint of uncertainty, which the marksman easily recognized as the fear of rejection.

  

Aramis was not sure when he fell asleep. Something awoke him. His hands were bound. He was nearly naked – only a long shirt covered him. He realized with dread that he was being led to a stake. He looked around, feeling panic rising within him. He saw his brothers fighting to save him, then dying one by one from the blades and bullets. He cried out desperately when Porthos fell, bleeding from a lethal wound in his chest. Athos did not have much chance to survive when he was fighting against five men…

  

Someone tried to grab him. He attempted to escape their grip, but was soon pinned to the ground. He recognized the smell then, and panic hit him hard.

  

He could not breathe. He was dying.  He should welcome death, but he could not stop fighting for breath.

  

“Aramis, breathe!”  There was a command in Athos’ voice, and he responded to it reflexively. Suddenly, he was able to pull air into his lungs. It was a relief. He slowly became aware that Porthos was holding him in his arms. He relaxed for a minute, only to stiffen once more.

“Did I hurt you?” Aramis asked nervously.

  

“No. You haven’t hurt anyone. Do you want to talk about your dream?”

  

“You died--trying to save me from the stake. I was condemned to death for… sodomy. And then I was once more in the hands of my captors. Nothing special… I should just get used to it." Suddenly, he realized that he had said too much. He should not have been so quick to share his nightmares with his brothers.

  

D’Artagnan squeezed his arm.

“I know what you mean," he said softly. Aramis knew that those words should not bring him relief, but they did.

  

They sat in silence, huddled against each other. Even Athos joined them. The knock at the door caused Aramis to reach for his weapon. That was not easy, as he was wrapped in Porthos' arms, and d’Artagnan was curled around them. So Athos, with a dagger in his hand, opened the door.

The Queen had been poisoned!

Aramis was shocked. He could feel Athos' hand on his arm. And it was only thanks to Athos that he did not leave the room in his night clothes. He had no idea when and how he had changed.

  

Aramis knew how dangerous poisons were. To see Anne’s fear was almost his undoing. He hated himself for his lack of  knowledge in this area. He knew the situation was dire. He knew she was probably going to die, even if everything in him screamed for him to be wrong.

  

He wanted so much to comfort her--to hold her in his arms, and to try to lessen her pain with his presence.

  

However, he left her in the care of his Captain. He hoped she would not say anything about him which might compromise her. He did not fear for himself, but for her and his son. He entered the Queen’s bedroom, and stood for a moment, surveying the room. He went to her bed. He could smell the sweat on the sheets. There was something alarming about that scent.

  

Aramis sighed, and stared at the night table. He picked up the Bible, and sniffed it. He was surprised by the faint, though still detectable, scent of herbs. Suddenly, he felt dizzy, and sank to his knees.

  

“Aramis!” Athos was suddenly by his side. 

“The Bible… it's poisoned!" he managed to whisper.

Athos took it from his hand, and placed it on the table.

“Do you think you've been poisoned as well?” his leader asked, watching him intently.

Aramis hesitated. He wanted to assure Athos that he would be fine, but perhaps it was time to be more honest that usual. This was not a simple wound.

  

“I hope not," he replied.

  

The medic went to the window, which was slightly ajar. He opened it, then hungrily breathed in the fresh air.

  

He leaned out to inspect the ground below, and saw a few freshly broken branches on the wild vines which covered the wall.

“Whoever did this came through the window. He needed time, and a small brush to cover the pages--or some part of them--in poison. We should check and see if anyone in the Palace is ill. Taking into consideration how fast-acting this substance appears to be, I am sure that the culprit has been affected.”

  

“D’Artagnan and Porthos are already questioning the servants, so we should know…” Athos cursed, and Aramis glanced at him quizzically.

  

“The attack yesterday--it was a diversion to give the assassin more time!" 

Aramis nodded in agreement.

They went outside to try to pick up on the trail of the culprit. To their surprise, they were able to track him some distance from the Palace. It was evident that the man had stumbled several times. The trail led the musketeers to one of the barns near the stables. They entered with caution.

  

Someone was lying half-buried in the hay. Aramis hastily brushed the straw away. He was well aware that Athos was ready to launch an attack, but the man lying there appeared to already be dead. He was about twenty years old, with dark hair and a very pale complexion. He was dressed in the simple clothes of a farmer’s son.

The marksman sought for a pulse with his ungloved hand. It was faint, and slow.

“My guess is that he has been fatally poisoned," he murmured.

Athos started to search through the man's clothes. He found five vials of liquid. None of them were entirely full or empty.

“Give them to me!" ordered Aramis. His leader raised an eyebrow.

  

“What do you intend to do?”

  

“Examine them. However, I’m afraid there is no antidote. If there was, I expect he would have taken it.”

  

“Maybe he did, but it didn't work… you and Deroux can try to revive him.”

  

“We should take him to the medical wing. We can try to save him, but I think it's too late.”

“The medical wing?” Athos looked at him quizzically.

  

“The area with the where the apothecary and the physician's rooms are." Aramis realized that calling it a medical wing was probably a bit of an exaggeration, as it consisted of only four rooms. The largest one was a storeroom for herbs. Shelves were lined with jars and bottles filled with a variety of liquids and salves. Another two rooms were nearly empty, with only beds and tables within them. The last one was a cozy bedroom, which was temporally occupied by Deroux.

  

In one of those semi-empty rooms, Athos left Aramis with the dying assassin. The medic tried to assess the man's condition. He wished he knew how long his patient had been in this state, and wondered what early symptoms the man might have displayed.

 

Aramis sighed. He hoped that Deroux would show up quickly, and was relieved to see the doctor enter the room with Athos. The physician brought the poisoned Bible with him, carefully holding it with a pair of tongs.

  

“How is the Queen?" asked Aramis, his heart filled with dread.

“Bad. She is only semi-conscious, but is still suffering. Your Captain's presence has been invaluable in soothing her…” Deroux did not finish the thought.

  

Anne was dying, and Aramis could not save her!  He was powerless, although he had vowed to protect her. So much for the oaths he had sworn!

  

He was startled when he felt someone’s hand on his arm. He turn his head to look at Athos. He was grateful for his brother’s silent support.

  

Aramis' voice was urgent. “Doctor, can you examine this man? I believe he is the culprit, but it appears that he did not exercise enough caution with the poison he used. We found five vials on him.”  The marksman glanced at Deroux, who was listening intently to him. There was a warmth in the physician’s eyes, which spoke of a deep sense of compassion.

  

_Does he already know what happened to me?_  The musketeer felt as if he was drowning.

  

“What’s wrong with you?"  He dimly heard Deroux’s question. Christ! Why was the physician paying attention to him? He should be focusing on Anne!

  

“I’m just tired," he mumbled, trying to regain his composure. Aramis could tell by the doctor's expression that he did not believe him. However, he merely shrugged, and turned to the bandit.

“He seems stable," he muttered. “I am guessing he took an antidote.”  He looked hopefully at Aramis. “Do you know which vial might contain it?”

  

The marksman shook his head.

“Do you think he will survive?” he asked after a moment.

Deroux nodded.

“When do you suppose he will regain consciousness?” Aramis' voice was strained. If the man survived, he intended to get the truth from his captive.

  

The doctor sighed. “I have no idea. I know very little about poison."

  

Aramis nodded, but his attention was diverted elsewhere. He had an idea. He opened the first vial, and cautiously sniffed it. The smell was similar to that which had been left on the book. He fought the wave of dizziness that immediately hit him. He checked the second vial. That scent was different. He serially examined all of them, and was able to discern two different scents. Three vials were clearly the poison, but two others had a different smell. Perhaps the antidote was in those two.

 He showed the two vials to Deroux.

“I am guessing that these two hold the antidote, but we cannot give it to the Queen based on a guess. She absorbed the poison by skin. We don’t even know how to properly administer the antidote.”

  

“We won't know anything for sure until this man is able to talk," replied the doctor. " But we don’t have the time to wait. I’ll just have to take the risk, and give it to the Queen. However, by doing so, I will be risking your life, Monsieur. The King has vowed to execute you if she dies.”

  

“I am a musketeer. I swore to protect her with my life," Aramis replied firmly. “Do it. I agree that we don’t have much time left.”

 

“If we have any at all," answered Deroux grimly.

  

Aramis knew what had to be done. To be honest, he was not eager to sacrifice himself, but he had no choice.

  

He took off the glove on his left hand. The skin was still healing from the burns, and there were a few minor abrasions left. He had not paid much attention to them, but now  - they were very useful.

He took the vial with the poison.

He had to do it.

It was not suicide.

It was not desertion.

It was his duty.

 

However at the last moment, he realized that he was about to make a huge mistake. Such concentrated poison would surely kill him in seconds. Instead, he picked up the Bible with his gloved hand, then rubbed his other hand against a few pages. He felt uncomfortable doing such a thing to the Holy Book, but it would have to be burned afterwards anyway.

 

He heard Athos’ shout when he sank to his knees. He was trembling, but could do nothing to stop it. His hand felt completely numb. Waves of dizziness were threatening to claim him. He could feel his heart racing. He was aware that he had extended his hand towards the vials. He could hear Athos speaking to him, but he could not make out the words.

 

Was he dying?!

That had not been his intention…

 

_Porthos, please forgive me…_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can treat this as a Christmas gift… although the cliffhanger…
> 
> Nontheless I wish you all my Dear Readers and Reviewers Merry Christmas :)))
> 
> Special thanks and special wishes to my Dear Beta :)))))


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos' POV

Athos

"Aramis!" When the Spaniard hit the floor, he cried out desperately. The swordsman leaped to his friend's side, then dropped to his knees in order to support his trembling brother.

He should have anticipated what Aramis intended to do.  
He should have taken the risk--not his brother! At this point, he knew he was much healthier than the marksman--and more importantly, he had not been weakened by any prior exposure to the poison.

"Lay him down!" ordered Deroux, taking charge of the situation.

Athos obeyed. He carefully lowered his friend to the floor, then laid the marksman's head in his lap.

Deroux washed Aramis' palm with a copious amount of water. Neither of them paid much attention to the puddle of water that formed on the floor, although the doctor tossed a cloth over it in order to prevent them from coming into contact with the poisoned liquid.

Aramis was still shaking, his breath coming in short gasps. His right hand was clutching Athos' leg. Though his friend's grip quickly became painful, the swordsman was grateful to feel the strength of Aramis' fingers. At least it meant that his brother was still fighting.

The medic's face had become deathly pale, and was bathed in sweat. Athos gently stroked his friend's damp hair. He nearly recoiled when he felt how cold Aramis' skin was. He glanced at the doctor in despair. A moment later, his eyes involuntarily went back to the marksman. Aramis’ lips were pursed, and he was desperately panting for air.

All Athos could think about was that he should be the one lying there.

At least Aramis would have been useful to Deroux. He was of no help whatsoever. 

The doctor was holding Aramis' hand, monitoring his pulse as he let a few drops of antidote fall on the musketeer's palm. His expression was grim. He shook his head with disbelief, and Athos' heart sank.

Was he witnessing the last minutes of his dear friend?  
Was he going to lose his younger brother? Again?

_What will I tell Porthos? And Anne, provided she survives?_

"Are all you musketeers so reckless and foolish?! And so... selfless?!" muttered Deroux.

"No... Aramis is...exceptional," whispered Athos.

_Please save him..._

Aramis' breathing seemed to slow. His body stopped trembling, and only a rare violent shiver ran through his body. His crushing grip on Athos lightened. 

"Aramis!" The swordsman's voice was full of alarm.

  
The Spaniard squeezed his leg reassuringly.   
"I'm--still here," he managed to rasp. He lay almost completely still. His eyes were closed, and he seemed entirely focused on controlling his breathing.

"Monsieur Aramis, does anything hurt you?" Deroux asked urgently.

He shook his head. Athos felt, rather than saw, this gesture. The marksman slowly opened his eyes.

"I think the worst is over." His voice sounded so weak.  
"How do you feel?" asked Deroux. "Tell me the truth!" he prodded.  
"Awfully weak."

Deroux left for a moment, then returned with a cup.  
"Drink it!" he ordered. "You must drink as much as you can. It will help flush the toxin out of your system."  
Athos propped up his friend a bit, and watched Aramis worriedly. The Spaniard did not even attempt to hold the cup. He drained the contents, then sank back against Athos.

Deroux knelt next to the marksman once again. Athos stared at him intently.

“Well?" he asked nervously.

“He is stabilizing. It is too early to be sure, but I think he may recover. I am guessing that our--guest," he motioned towards the bandit, “took too much of the antidote. Thanks to your courageous actions, Monsieur Aramis, we know that we have the antidote in hand. I am going to administer it to the Queen. You should rest until tomorrow morning at least. And I want someone to remain with you at all times until then. Can you arrange for this, Monsieur Athos?  If he takes a turn for the worse, I need to be immediately informed-- for the Queen's sake."

"I want to question the bandit when he regains consciousness," muttered Aramis.  
"Very well. If you wish to stay here, there is a bed." Deroux was already at the door.  
"If you see any musketeers, can you ask them to come here?" asked Athos.  
The doctor nodded, then left them.

"Do you think you can stand up?" asked Athos, still quite worried.  
"I'd rather not," replied Aramis, his voice hoarse. "Just leave me on the floor." That answer did not reassure his leader.  
"A brilliant plan! I wonder what method Porthos will use to kill me when he sees you there?" mused Athos teasingly.  
The marksman hummed in agreement. The lieutenant was relieved to see a bit of color returning to friend's face.

The door suddenly flew open, and Porthos stormed in, with d'Artagnan close behind him.  
"Aramis?!!" Porthos slid to a stop, kneeling next to his brother.   
"Alive--" murmured the Spaniard.  
"Porthos, can you move him to the bed?" asked Athos. “D’Artagnan, start a fire in the fireplace.” The room was really chilly.

Porthos growled as his gently took his brother in his arms.  
"This is just wrong. I am getting tired of holding you in my arms instead of a beautiful woman."  His words were lighthearted, but his voice was tense.  
He laid Aramis on the bed and covered him with a blanket. He then turned to face Athos, a stormy expression on his face.

"What happened?" he demanded.

"We found the culprit," answered Athos wearily. "He is over there, on that table. Please be so kind as to tie him up, d'Artagnan. The man had both poison and antidote on him. Aramis tested what we thought was the antidote to make sure it worked. Luckily, it did."

"What do you mean tested?!" The big man's voice was dangerously low.

"He took the poison, then the antidote," Athos replied coolly. "D'Artagnan, I need you to stay with him. If he takes a turn for the worse, get Deroux immediately."

"Athos... you just let him do it??" Porthos was shocked.

"He didn't exactly stop to ask my permission!"

_I know what you're thinking...and you're right. It should have been me..._

Porthos shook his head angrily, then returned to the bed.

"You foolish bastard, are you still trying to die on me?!!", he raged.

"No... I'm not dying," replied Aramis weakly. He would have sounded more convincing if his voice had been above a whisper.

"Alright, then. Sleep. We'll talk later," sighed Porthos.

As they left, the big man muttered accusingly, “I thought he would be safe with you, Athos!" 

Athos' shoulders slumped. “You are right to blame me." 

“No, it's not your fault. I'm just… worried.“

“What have you found out?” Athos swiftly changed the topic.

“Well, one of the girls from the kitchen is missing. The majority of the staff have been working here for years. But we haven’t finished questioning everyone. When I know more, I'll let you know."

Athos knocked at the room that had once been Constance’s, but was now being used as a space to treat the Queen. Tréville called out for him to enter. Anne was curled up on the bed. The Captain was holding her hand. He gently sponged her face with a cold rag. Although her cheeks were flushed with fever, the rest of her skin was deathly pale.

“Give me your report!" ordered the Captain.

His lieutenant obeyed, and gave him a concise summary of the investigation to date. Tréville eyes darkened when he heard what Aramis had done.

“Athos, I need for you to take over my duties temporarily. I cannot leave Her Majesty, nor can I have an endless procession of musketeers coming here to report to me. Unless, of course, they with an update on Aramis’ condition.”

The swordsman inclined his head. “Yes, sir.”

Athos left. He needed to find the other musketeers. He left a message for them in one of the guard rooms they used as a gathering place. As he turned a corner, he suddenly collided with someone. The delicate scent of perfume filled his nostrils, and he forgot the apology that had been on his lips.

It was her. He could almost feel her skin on his. She was wearing an emerald green dress. It highlighted the color of her eyes, and she looked indescribably gorgeous.

“I’m sorry," he mumbled.

“It's nothing." Her eyes met his, and she smiled at him sweetly.

God, he still missed her! After all this time...after everything she had done...what was wrong with him?!

_She is the King’s lover, you fool!_

That thought did not exactly help him.

“Did you poison the Queen?” he asked sharply.

She smiled at him once again.

“I didn't think you were stupid enough to actually believe that I would do such a thing. What could I possibly gain by her death?”

Her words made sense. She saw his indecision, and moved a step closer. "However, I do know a few things about poison. Perhaps I could be of service?”

“I don’t trust you," he growled.

“I am well aware of that. Tell me her symptoms."

_Could she possibly have any knowledge that would benefit them in this situation? Could she really help save the Queen?_

They had the antidote, but they did not know exactly how to administer it. It was true that the compound had helped Aramis, but it had been given to him immediately after his exposure to the poison.

“Olivier, it is stupid to risk the Queen’s life just because you cannot bring yourself to trust me!" She opened the door of an empty room, and maneuvered him inside. This was not a conversation which should be overheard, so he did not protest.

“I have some idea how the poison acts…” he said, not really sure if he was doing the right thing. She drew closer, and he fell silent. She was almost touching him now...

“Well?" she inquired, her voice low and seductive.

“Why do you want to help the Queen?” he countered, struggling valiantly against the desire to touch her...to take her in his arms... to kiss her warm lips, and to claim her as his own. Damn it, she was still his wife!  He, and no one else, had the right to make love to her!

_You idiot! What are you thinking?!_

“If the King wants his wife to live, I would be more than happy to assist you in saving her. If we succeed, Louis will be indebted to me, and he will be likely treat to me better than ever." A sly smile spread across her face.

Athos nodded. If Anne was not a part of some bigger conspiracy, she had nothing to gain by the Queen’s death. So he told her his theory of how the poison acted, based on what he had witnessed with Aramis.

“So, there was another victim," she stated.

“The possible antidote had to be tested!" he replied sharply.

“And you didn't volunteer?”, she asked sarcastically. “I would have thought that the valiant Athos would be the one to sacrifice himself in order to save his Queen. So one of your friends had to step in instead. A pity. Even with the proper antidote, the fever may still kill him.”

“He was not feverish when I left him!" Athos snapped, refusing to believe that there was a chance that Aramis was still in danger.

She shrugged, then surprised him by gently touching his cheek. 

He tried to not to react to her touch. "So, do you have anything to say which may help the Queen?” he asked gruffly.

“Yes. The antidote is a poison itself, so be very cautious with the amount that you give her, especially since she is already quite ill. The antidote will quickly stabilize her heart rate, but that doesn’t mean she is out of the woods. And it does not mean that you should give her more." She paused, then tilted up her head slightly, slanting her lovely eyes at him. "I hope I have been helpful."

He drank in her image for a few seconds, then forced himself to break away from her touch. All he could think about was how her lips would taste.....

“I must tell Deroux."

“I’ll wait for you here," she breathed.

He quickly shared the information with the doctor, then returned to the room. 

_Why had I come back?!_

She was sitting on the table, waiting for him.  Each nonchalant movement seemed to be designed to seduce him. She tilted her head, and gazed at him through her long eyelashes.

“Anne, I need to know…” he said hoarsely. This was much more difficult than he had anticipated. He felt as if she were slowly undressing him just by the way she was looking at him. God, he wanted her!

“Did you kill our child?!” 

He had finally managed to get the question out.

She stilled, and he saw a deep sorrow in her eyes.

“I miscarried. It was never my intention to kill your child." Her eyes were misty with tears.

“Why didn't you tell me?!” His voice broke, and he felt as if his worst nightmare had come to life.

“I knew how much you wanted to have a child! I wanted to be sure first...and then I was waiting for our anniversary to tell you... to give you the news as a gift."

 Her voice was sad, and her eyes unfocused. It was as if she was watching their tragic past unfold in front of her once more.  “And then I… was shocked, I suppose. Thomas assaulted me...then Catherine accused me of killing him...and you condemned me to death on the spot.  It was… too much. It all happened so fast…”  She fell silent for a moment.

When was able to continue, her voice wavered.  “I should have told you… but would it have really changed anything? Would I have been able to live with you, knowing how much you hated me? Would our child have been able to thrive in such a toxic atmosphere? No, Olivier. The baby would have been an unhappy and unwanted being...just as I was." Tears were falling down her cheeks.

_Would it have changed anything?_

_Would it?_

Her question lingered in the empty room. 

He suddenly found himself alone. He had no idea when she had left.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riversidewren, thank you for everything and here there is a little gift for you – Athos and Milady’s conversation :)))))))
> 
>  


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan POV

D’Artagnan

He could feel the chill starting to penetrate his clothes, and put more wood chips on the fire. The boy from Gascony was still not used to the cold Paris winters. He poured some wine into the cup, added a bit of water, and approached Aramis. The Spaniard seemed to be sleeping. D’Artagnan lightly touched his cheek, then frowned. The temperature of his skin was far too warm.

 “Aramis.”

 His friend groaned in response. 

“You have to drink this.” He helped the marksman sit up, and propped him against the pillows. He then brought the cup to the Spaniard’s lips. Aramis obediently drank.

 When he had finished, d’Artagnan asked softly,“How do you feel?”

 The marksman closed his eyes, and grimaced. “Not too good. Sit down.” He patted the space on the bed next to him.

 “Should I get Deroux?” asked the boy, becoming uneasy.

 “I don’t know…” Aramis’ lethargic answer sent a chill down d’Artagnan’s spine.

 “I’ll be right back,” he said, hastily squeezing his friend’s arm. 

 “Wait… don’t disturb him…”

 “Listen to me, Aramis! You took the poison in order to help the Queen! He needs to know that the antidote did not fix everything.”

 “It rarely does…”

 “You knew that?! And yet you still took the risk?!”

 “We needed to make sure it actually was the correct substance…”

 “And what if it hadn’t been?!” D’Artagnan was beside himself, and began to pace the floor.

 “I would have probably died…” murmured the marksman. “But I think it may have affected Anne differently. Fortunately, she did not have damaged skin on her hands….” 

“Anne? Are you referring to the Queen?!”

 “Yes…” he muttered, closing his eyes.

 D’Artagnan was torn. What was the right thing to do? Should he leave to get the doctor, or should he stay with Aramis? He knew all too well how much the Spaniard hated being alone when he felt poorly.

 The marksman slowly opened his eyes. “Sit here,” he croaked, patting the bed once again.

 This time the boy obeyed. The Spaniard shifted, curling his body around his friend.

The Gascon gently stroked his hair, then cursed under his breath when he felt how hot the marksman’s skin had become in just a few minutes.

 He jumped up, seizing a bucket of water that was standing near the window. He brought it back to the bed, and set it on the floor. Taking a clean rag he found in a small cupboard, d’Artagnan soaked the cloth in the cold water, then laid it on Aramis’ forehead.

 “I’m going to get the doctor, but I’ll be right back,” he promised.

 “D’Artagnan!” Aramis’ voice was pleading. “Please—don’t leave me!”

 The Gascon turned to face his friend. He laid a hand on the marksman’s arm, and gently touched his feverish cheek.

 “I’ll be back. Trust me. I won’t leave you for more than a few moments.”

 He squeezed Aramis’ arm, then left, and ran to the Queen’s suite of rooms. When he knocked on the door, Constance answered.

 “Is doctor Deroux here?” he blurted out, then noticed that her eyes were full of tears. His blood ran cold, and he feared for the Queen’s life.

 She wiped her eyes quickly, trying to control her emotions. “It’s about Aramis, isn’t it? Come in. I don’t think you’ll disturb the Queen. She is barely conscious.”

 The musketeer entered the room, and froze when he saw the scene in front of him.

 Anne was lying flat on the bed. Her eyes were glazed, and were only half open. The Captain was sitting next to her, his head bowed. He looked up at d’Artagnan, but before he could say anything, Deroux spoke. His voice was full of concern.

 “How is Monsieur Aramis? Has he taken a turn for the worse?!”

“He has a high fever, and he… doesn’t feel well.” It was a gross understatement, but d’Artagnan did not really know what else he could say about his brother’s condition.

“Aramis?” Anne’s voice was merely a hoarse whisper.

Treville spoke to her gently. “He is not here, Your Majesty. He is busy working to save his Queen.”

D’Artagnan stood spellbound, watching his gruff Captain tenderly sponge Anne’s face with a rag. Tréville reminded him of a father caring for his sick daughter. He had seen the Captain tend someone in this manner only once before—and that had been Athos. This was much more than the simple reassuring presence his commander always offered any of his wounded soldiers. This was genuine affection. D’Artagnan suddenly felt as if he had intruded upon a moment of real intimacy.

 The doctor glanced at Tréville. “May I go check on Aramis?”

 “Go ahead,” replied Tréville gruffly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 As d’Artagnan went to leave, Constance seized his hand, and squeezed it. He was not sure if she was offering him comfort or seeking it for herself. He pressed her hand in response, then left.

 D’Artagnan stopped Deroux when the doctor reached for the doorknob of Aramis’ room. He knocked softly, then called out, “Aramis, it’s me – d’Artagnan. Don’t shoot!”

 There was a pause, then the answer came. “Come in.”

 The marksman was exactly where the Gascon had left him, but he now had a pistol in his hand that was aimed directly at the door. When they entered the room, he put the weapon aside, and allowed Deroux to examine him. He replied to each question the physician put to him. D’Artagnan was sure that for once, Aramis was not holding anything back.

 The doctor hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Monsieur, I think that it would be most helpful to have someone else examine you—someone who seems to have much more knowledge about poisons than either you or I. Would you agree to this?”

 “If it can possibly help the Queen, why should I object?” He paused, then asked quietly, “May I ask how she is?”

 “Her Majesty seems a bit better, but it is really too soon to tell. I am sorry I can’t give you more hope…”

 Aramis shifted on the pillow, then winced. “Please don’t say you’re sorry. It makes me uncomfortable to have a doctor apologize to me.”

 Deroux must have understood, because he nodded.

 “Monsieur d’Artagnan.” The doctor turned to the Gascon. “I need you to do your best to keep his fever at bay--and make him drink as much as he can tolerate.”

 “I’ll follow your instructions to the letter,” the boy responded.

 Deroux then turned to his patient. “Monsieur Aramis, I don’t wish to seem to be interfering with your official duties, but do you really think it is a good idea for you to be in charge of the prisoner’s interrogation?”

“Yes. I am quite sure,” replied Aramis. He paused, then smirked. “And if I am unable to do it for some reason, my friend Porthos will be more than happy to stand in for me.” 

 The doctor laughed nervously, recalling his past interaction with Porthos. “I think I know exactly who you are referring to. Monsieur Porthos was very worried about youafter your fight.”

 “So, who is this person that has experience with poisons?” asked the Gascon.

 “The King’s lover,” replied the doctor. “Milady de Winter.”

 D’Artagnan winced. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea…”

 Aramis shrugged. “Why not?” he muttered, glaring at d’Artagnan when the boy approached him with another cup. “What do we have to lose?”

 Deroux went to the door, then turned.“Monsieur d’Artagnan, if you have even the slightest feeling that you need my assistance, do not hesitate to come and find me.”

 The Gascon nodded in understanding, and the doctor left.

 Aramis dutifully drained the cup, then looked up at his comrade and said hoarsely,“D’Artagnan, I need your help…”

 “Certainly. What can I do for you?” The Gascon felt relieved that he could possibly do something useful for his brother. Up until now, his only real job had been to change the cloth on his brother’s forehead.

 “Please check on our guest,” the Spaniard murmured.

 D’Artagnan went over to their captive, and examined him briefly. “His pulse seems stronger. Perhaps he will wake up soon.”

 “Good… now I need for you to bring me some absinthe, nettle salve, and linseed oil. And don’t forget to wear gloves.”

 “But… they aren’t poisonous, are they?” asked the surprised Gascon.

 “No, they aren’t—at least, not for us. But… for our guest, they will be deadly.”

 D’Artagnan looked at his friend with awe, then scrambled to gather all the required items. He put everything on a small tray, thenreturnedto his friend. Aramis was lying still, and his eyes were closed.

 “Aramis?” he blurted out, beginning to panic.

 “I’m not dying,” murmured the Spaniard. “I’m--just tired.”

“You need to sleep”, whispered d’Artagnan, sitting down next to his friend. Aramis leaned against him. The younger man tried to keep watch, but sleep finally claimed him.

 

A soft knock on the door woke him up. D’Artagnan took up his brother’s pistol, and called for their visitor to enter. Milady glided into the room.

 She glanced at Aramis, then raised a delicate eyebrow, a small smile playing on her lips. “So, you are the knight in shining armor. Didn’t anyone ever teach you that armor is of little use when poison is involved?” As she drew closer, d’Artagnan tensed, ready to defend his brother if necessary.

 “I am grateful to you for coming,” whispered Aramis.

 She shook her head. “Always so gallant…well, tell me, Sir Lancelot, how do you feel? And don’t waste my time—tell me the truth!”

 “Tired. Hot and cold at the same time. Quite bad.”

 “Anything more specific? Or unusual?” She took his hand in hers, and inspected it closely.

 “Not really.”

 She cupped his face in her hands, and looked into his eyes for a long moment. “If you survive the next twenty four hours, you’ll live,” she finally stated.

 “But what are his actual chances?!” d’Artagnan cried out. He had not realized that his brother was in such grave danger, and was shaken.

 She thought for a moment, and a cruel glint appeared in her eyes. She let go of his face, and stood up briskly.

 “For a healthy young man, they would normally be quite good-- but your body has been through much recently, and you did not get a chance to fully recover before this latest insult. I am sorry to have to say this, but if I were you, I would make my peace with God.”

 “No! Milady!” d’Artagnan’s voice was pleading as he caught her hand. “Please save him!”

 She stared at him for a long moment, then asked quietly, “Let me ask you this. Would you trust my cure?”

 D’Artagnan lowered his eyes, unable to answer her.

 Her green eyes were mocking. “I’ll save you the humiliation of answering me. I don’t have a cure. You used the antidote wisely.” She turned to the bed. “Aramis, I can prepare a draught for you to drink which may help to cleanse your blood. It should be safe to use while the toxin is still circulating in your system.”

 “Have you given it to the Queen?” Aramis murmured, lying back against the pillow.

 “No. I spoke with Deroux, but he had already given her some other herbs. He did not think it would be a good idea to mix them with the ingredients in this draught.”

 D’Artagnan was suddenly not sure what to think, and blurted out, “Would you kill Aramis to hurt Athos?!”

 She smiled at him. “Ah, but I’m not forcing him to take anything. It is completely up to him. I will be back in a moment with the draught.”

 After the door closed, d’Artagnan glanced at Aramis. His brother seemed to be nearly asleep. “Do you really trust her?” he asked incredulously.

 “Generally? No. In this case, I don’t know what to think.”

 “Maybe you should lie down and stretch out?”

 The marksman leaned his head against d’Artagnan’s arm. “No. I’m comfortable the way I am.”

 

When she returned, Milady set the draught on a table near the bed, then looked at them. Aramis was asleep.

 “Remember, it is his choice,” she said coolly, then left. Only the delicate scent of her perfume lingered behind.

 D’Artagnan took the cup, and cautiously tasted the liquid. It was horrible, but the bad taste told him nothing. Aramis’ draughts were also disgusting. He looked at his sleeping friend, and decided to change the cloth on his face. While he washed Aramis’ face with a new rag soaked in cold water, he debated what he should do. The marksman was still feverish, but his temperature seemed to have stopped climbing. The Gascon hoped that the fever was not high enough to be life threatening.

 

The prisoner groaned.

 

D’Artagnan gently tapped Aramis’ cheek. The Spaniard was slow to respond, and the boy feared that he was not asleep, but unconscious. He was greatly relieved when the marksman finally opened his eyes.

 “Our guest is waking up,” whispered d’Artagnan.

 “I’m counting on your help, brother,” Aramis said softly.

 “I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

 

 His words earned him a warm smile. “Can you check and see if he’s awake?” Aramis asked, his voice a little louder.

 D’Artagnan nodded, and went over to their captive. The man was indeed conscious. He cast a furious look at the musketeer.

 “He’s awake,” called out d’Artagnan, then turned to the prisoner. “Who are you working for?”

 The man smirked. “The true captain!”

 “So you admit that you poisoned the Queen?!”

 “She is a Spanish spy!”

 “Who is your captain?!”

 There was no reply.

 “Give him some of the poison!” ordered Aramis. “It’s in that small, dark bottle.”

 “Got it! How should I give it to him?”

 “On the tongue or the lips would be best. It’s guaranteed to cause hours of agony.”

 D’Artagnan held the bottle gingerly.

 

“Be careful! I don’t want to lose you!” warned Aramis.

 “I thought you said you had the antidote…”

 “Well, I’m not exactly sure. We’ll have to test it on him.” He sighed. “Remember how the last one screamed? It didn’t work on him. I hope this one won’t be as loud.”

 

The Gascon gave the marksman a grudging look. “Do we have to? My nerves were worn thin by listening to the last one!” When he saw the fear in their captive’s eyes, he had to struggle to keep from grinning.

 As d’Artagnan prepared to pry his mouth open, their captive squirmed, and yelled, “I don’t know his real identity! I swear!”

 D’Artagnan gave him a reproving look. “You expect us to believe that? How is that possible?”

 “He… he wears a mask…”

 He shook his head. “I don’t believe you. Let’s try this again. Who gave you the poison?”

 “His name is Bernard.”

 D’Artagnan looked at Aramis. “He’s not being very helpful.”

 Aramis sighed. “I guess he wants you to get the information from him the hard way.”

 

The first drop of liquid fell on the man’s lips, and he screamed in panic.

 “I don’t know much! He wears a mask--I swear! But I can tell you that he is slim—and—and—tall!”

  D’Artagnan raised an eyebrow. “Something more precise?”

 “Fair hair-- grey eyes! About twenty years old!”

 

D’Artagnan grinned.“That’s better. You’re a quick learner. Now you can give me descriptions of the others.”

 “I –I never saw their faces!” the man gasped. “We all wear masks!”

 “You’re lying!” Aramis shouted.

 “No! I swear it!”

 “Then prove it!” snapped the Spaniard. “Give me some real information, and I’ll consider granting you a merciful death!”

“There will be no Queen by New Year’s Eve. If she survives this time, her son will be the next target--and she willingly go to her death in order to save him.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And whose POV would you like next?
> 
> Thank you, Riversidewren!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance's POV

Constance

 

Even though she was not the one dying from the poison, the last few hours had seemed like a nightmare.  If she could, she would have taken Anne’s place in a heartbeat. Since she could not, she was determined to do everything possible in order to save her Queen. She completely understood Aramis’ decision to test the antidote on himself, but her heart ached for the handsome musketeer.

 

She placed another bowl of cold water on the little table near the bed. The Captain thanked her with a slight nod.

 

“Captain, I think you should eat something. I’ll get you some food." She spoke in a whisper, not wanting to disturb the Queen, who remained restless in her feverish sleep.

 

“Thank you, Constance, but I am not hungry. Perhaps later."

 

She could see that he thanked her not for the offer, but for the moment of distraction she gave him. After a moment, his solemn gaze drifted back to the Queen’s face.

 

“Fight, Anne!" she whispered, gently touching her friend's damp hair. When they were in the privacy of Queen’s rooms, the young royal always insisted that Constance call her by her given name.

.

“For whom?”

 

The question was barely audible, and Constance was at a loss for what to say. If only they had been alone! Then she would have felt free to say exactly for whom the Queen should survive.

 

“Fight for your son, My Lady!" urged Tréville, saving Madame Bonacieux from her indecision.

 

“Will you take care of him…? I want...I want him.... to be a better King that my husband…”, she pleaded, this time searching the Captain’s eyes with her own.

 

“You will live, Your Majesty! You received the proper antidote.” The Captain’s voice was firm.

 

Hearing his words, all Constance could only think about was Aramis.  He was probably dying somewhere in this damned cold Palace right at this very moment.  She did not want to think about how his death would affect Anne, provided that she survived. She did not want to think about the grief his brothers would have to deal with. She feared for d’Artagnan. God, she still loved him!

 

She looked at the young Queen.

 

_We are so alike. Both in love with musketeers, both disrespected by our husbands… only… you are the Queen… and even if your husband dies, you won’t be free… I… God, how can I even think about my husband’s death?! What kind of a person am I?!_

"Promise me, Captain!" Anne's voice sounded so frightened and childlike.  "Promise me… Jean.”

 

“I will do my best for your son, but I could never replace his mother," he replied gravely, gently lifting her hand to his lips. He placed a soft kiss on her fingers.

 

_Just like an older brother…_

 

Constance had become familiar with this kind of kiss-- full of respect and love--ever since the Inseparables had started to trust her. They all treated her as their dearest sister.  After her husband had threatened to kill himself, d'Artagnan had tried to treat her the way the others did, but it had not worked. How could it?! She missed him so much. She could still read love in his hazel eyes. She could still read his affection in his gestures. She could still feel the desire in his voice when he was talking to her…

 

And all these emotions were reciprocated…

 

When she had seen him suicidal, it had broken her heart. She suddenly realized that she did not care about her reputation, or about her sacred vows. She cared only about this broken--or nearly broken--young musketeer. If she could help him, it was be worth damning her soul to hell.

 

Anne seemed to relax a little after the Captain’s promise. Deroux came to check on the Queen. Constance did not realize that she was holding her breath until it suddenly became painful.

 

Finally, Deroux withdrew from the bedside.

 

“How is she, doctor?”

Treville was sponging the Queen’s face, as she still had a high fever.

 

“Better, but she needs some sleep-- and she really needs for that fever to break…. Madame Bonacieux, could you please check on Monsieur Aramis?”

 

“Yes, of course-- if I am not needed here," replied Constance, feeling relieved. She had had enough of standing by uselessly as the Captain took care of Anne. And it seemed that the Queen accepted his care with gratitude. 

 

_Because he is a musketeer… the commander of hermusketeer--and her musketeer respects him_

Why was fate was so cruel? Why was Anne not allowed to love the man whom her heart had chosen? The one who would be a good and loyal husband to her, instead of acting like a spoiled child? Since Constance had started her work at Court, all the respect she had had for the King had evaporated.  His actions today meant that she could never have any warm feelings for him ever again. She was close to hating her King--the man who had chosen to abandon his wife so cruelly.

 

The Captain silently agreed to her departure. Deroux told her where to find Aramis and d’Artagnan. She hoped she would not get lost in the labyrinth of corridors and staircases, as she knew that the Palace was not a safe place. When she arrived at the door which matched the description the doctor had given her, she knocked. She tried to calm her hammering heart enough to be able to hear what was going in the room. But all was silent. The door was probably too thick to hear anything. Nobody answered her knock, so she pressed on the handle, and the door opened. The sight she met caused her to freeze.

 

Both musketeers were on the floor. Aramis was lying in d’Artagnan arms, his face hidden in the crook of the boy's arm.

 

_It can't be comfortable for him to breathe in this position…But maybe he does not need to breathe any more…_

 

D’Artagnan lifted his head. Tears were falling down his face. Constance realized that she was trembling. Her Gascon tightened his grip on his friend.

 

“Get Athos. Please!" he begged.

 

Constance felt that her questions had to wait, as there was so much despair in the musketeer’s voice.

 

“Where can I find him?” she asked, panic creeping into her own voice.

 

“I have no idea," murmured the Gascon, gently stroking Aramis' hair.

 

“Should I get Doctor Deroux too?”

 

“No! Just Athos. Go!" The order and the plea were both desperate.

 

She nodded, and ran. She fled from the room which might soon contain her grieving sweetheart and the body of her dead friend. She desperately wanted to believe that they would prevail one more time--that they would survive.

 

Finding Athos turned out to be a difficult task. Finally, a musketeer led her to one of the guard rooms. Athos was conversing with Etienne, but broke off when he saw her. His eyes looked at her with dread.

 

“D’Artagnan begged for me to find you, and tell you to come immediately!" she blurted out, interrupting Etienne in mid-sentence.

 

“Do you know why…?”

 

She nodded, and whispered only one word – “Aramis."  Suddenly, she realized that she was not capable of finishing her sentence. She could not voice her fear.

 

Athos already looked unwell, but he turned even paler. He did not ask any questions, but bolted from the room. For a moment, she hesitated, then decided to follow. She was very afraid of what awaited them.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riversidewren, thank you.
> 
> Happy New Year to all my Readers!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne's POV

Anne

 

She was dying. She was sure of it. But when Tréville promised her that he would take care of her son, she felt she could let go. It disturbed her that there was no way for her to leave a message for Aramis. God! She would leave him with the knowledge she was aware of his secret, but she would never have a chance to offer him her… forgiveness?

 

No, that was not the right word--or the right emotion. Aramis did not need her forgiveness. He had done nothing wrong.

 

Compassion?

No. Compassion was too close to pity. 

The proud musketeer would never accept it.

 

Understanding?

No. Could she ever really understand what he had survived? 

She had never been wounded--or even injured. Thanks to the musketeers…

 

Love…

That was the emotion which she would like to give to her musketeer… but she could not. 

Every glance was too risky… the life of their son was at stake…

Her son. The most beautiful gift she had ever received. God’s gift. 

How could God give her such a gift when she had broken her vows?

Aramis’ God could… Aramis’ God understood her, and forgave her…

 

But it was not enough to save Aramis…

 

“The man you knew is dead." Athos’ words pierced her soul.

 

She could feel hot tears on her cheeks. She tried to regain her composure, but could not. She felt someone lift her slightly. Warm arms encircled her. 

 

It was suddenly too much. 

 

The smell of leather and powder engulfed her. It was not Aramis…she knew it wasn't.

But because it was not, it was safe to hide her face in his arms and cry. It was safe to cry and be comforted. 

The poison and the fever were the excuse she needed. 

Even a queen was allowed to have a fever--or to be poisoned. 

She was even allowed to be dying. 

It was only forbidden for her to feel--to love.

 

_She was standing in the empty ballroom. The candles had been extinguished. There were colorful bits of ribbon lying on the floor.  The scents of sweat and perfume were thick in the air. The ball was over. She went over to the empty tables. There were red stains on them. She touched one of the red spots. The liquid was too thick to be wine._

_“My Queen?” She heard Aramis' voice, and turned to face her musketeer. He was extremely pale. Blood colored his bluish lips crimson._

_“Aramis!” She nearly burst into tears._

_“It’s alright, Your Majesty. The antidote worked.”_

_“You… you tested it… on yourself? I knew there was something they weren't telling me!”_

_“My Lady, I was already a dead man! It changed nothing.”_

_“No! I want you to live! How can I face all this without knowing you are alive somewhere on this earth?! Knowing that you still love me? I know I am selfish… but.. don’t leave me, please!"_

_He gently took her hand in his._

_“Anne… You’ll be safe. Our son will be safe. It’s more than I could ever ask for…”_

_“No! No…I love you. If… if you had found another woman, it would have be hard for me, but… eventually I would  accepted it. Your death will be never acceptable! Especially a death you accepted in order to save me.”_

_She took his face in her hands, and gently kissed him, tasting the blood on his lips. When she opened her eyes, she saw the desperate fear in his brown orbs. She drew back, suddenly panicking. He fell on his knees, whispering apologies for having tainted her. She was at a loss for words._

_She wanted so badly to take him in her arms, but she knew he would feel cornered. So she sank to her knees, and tried to be there for him in his last minutes. She knew that she should have found his brothers--that she should have given him that one last comfort._

_But she could not move. She was weak…how could her son possibly be a great king when she was so weak…?_

“Aramis…”

“He’s not here, Anne…”  Treville’s gruff voice came to her ears.

She forced herself to open her eyes, afraid of how much she might have revealed.

The Captain's face was solemn and sad. There was no condemnation in his gaze.

“He took the poison, didn’t he?” she asked quietly.

“Yes, he did, Your Majesty.”

 

She was not shocked. She had known.

“Is he alive?”

“Yes. He is strong, Anne. He will be fine. You should not… express your anguish for him so openly.”

She nodded. He was right.

He moved, and started to stand up.

 

“Don’t leave me, please! I am not as… courageous as your musketeers are… please, stay…” She was suddenly aware that she sounded like a scared little girl. But she was too tired to care.

 

“I won’t leave you, Anne," he whispered. He softly kissed her forehead, then placed a fresh, cool rag on her brow.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riversidewren, thank you!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d'Artagnan's POV

D’Artagnan

 

He glanced at Aramis when the prisoner told them about the threat against the Dauphin. He wanted to catch his brother's eye in order to know how to react, but he froze when he saw how pale his friend had become.

 

“Give him some more poison! We need details."  Aramis’ face was grey, but his voice did not waver.

 

“I don’t know the details!”

 

“Listen!” D’Artagnan was tired, and more then a little worried about the marksman. He was also becoming annoyed with their captive. "There are always people would talk about kidnapping the Dauphin or killing the King. But your little group seems to have gone way beyond the stage of talking. You already have a plan in place. So, tell me what this plan is, or prepare to die in a very unpleasant way." He smiled. "Your choice."

 

“We have some people working for us at Court. Some others are members of the Red Guard… I suppose the Dauphin may have been already taken. He cannot be allowed to live when the Queen dies.”

 

“Enough!" shouted Aramis. "I am fed up with this criminal! All he is trying to do is save his own skin. Give him the poison! At least we can use him to test the antidote. But take him to the other room. I hope the walls are thick enough to muffle the screaming. I already have a headache. Tie him up and gag him!”

 

“But if I gag him and he starts to throw up, he’ll choke on his own vomit."

 

“Not my problem."

 Aramis words sounded harsh, but one look at him told d’Artagnan that something was very, very wrong. He knew that his brother did not want the prisoner to witness his suffering--or worse. So he cautiously obeyed.

 

He put another drop of “poison” on the captive’s lips, then untied him from the table. He shoved the man towards the door.

 

“Don't annoy me.  If you do, I may forget to give you the cure," he growled.

 

A few moments later, they were in the room next door. d'Artagnan tied the man to the bed.

 

“Now tell me!  Where are you supposed to go in order to give your report?" 

 

“The stables. The second stall on the left…” 

The bitter taste of absinthe must have already spread through his mouth. The captive was close to panic. D’Artagnan smiled cruelly. He applied a bit of the salve, then gagged the prisoner.

 

“Sweet dreams--about the gallows, that is."  He grinned, then left.

 

He locked the door, then pocketed the key. There was no need for anyone to see the captive. He was quite sure that the “True Musketeers” had infiltrated the Palace. He also believed that their very frightened prisoner had no more important information to offer. 

 

D’Artagnan opened the door to their room, and froze. Aramis was curled up on the floor. The Gascon was at his side in an instant. When he saw that the cup that had held Milady’s draught was empty, he became sick with fear.

 

Had she prepared a poison?? Had she killed Aramis?!

 

“Aramis?!!”

 

No, the Spaniard was still alive. D’Artagnan cursed when he realized how hot was his friend's skin was.

 

“Aramis!!” He gently tapped his cheek. The marksman finally opened his eyes. They were filled with tears.

 

“I can't even make to the door! How can I save him??!!”

 

“Hush… I’ll get Deroux and Athos…” A thought struck D'Artagnan, and he paused.

 

_Why was Aramis so upset about the threat to the Dauphin? If it had been the King, his friend would not have been so shaken._

D’Artagnan saw the despair in his brother's eyes. Suddenly, he understood.

 

“He's your son! The Dauphin is your son!" he whispered, stricken.

 

“You shouldn’t know… it's too dangerous!" rasped Aramis.

 

 The Gascon was hurt. “Your secret is safe. You should know by now that you can trust me!!” 

 

“I do trust you! I am just afraid that you are now in danger. I need you to go and get Athos. Just Athos--no one else!" he insisted. His hands gripped d'Artagnan's shirt as tightly as if it were a lifeline. The boy hugged him.

 

He could imagine how he would feel if Constance had a child with him. A child who would be known to the world as Jacques' son or daughter. This was far worse. Aramis was still in love with Anne. D’Artagnan knew how much Constance’s touch and kisses helped him. The woman whom his brother loved could not offer him even this. She could not help him even if she wanted to. It was so unfair!

 

He felt Aramis trembling in his arms. He was not sure if it was because of the poison, or because the fever had destroyed his composure. Aramis was always so vulnerable when under the influence of a fever. And the awareness that he may be close to losing both the woman whom he loved and the son whom he could not acknowledge suddenly seemed to be too much for him.

 

_As his predicament is for me…_

 

The boy realized t!hat tears were falling down his cheeks. “Aramis?” he whispered.

 

“I’m sorry…. I’m so sorry," mumbled his brother.

 

“Aramis?” D’Artagnan pulled back. He cupped his friend's face in his hands, and forced him to look at him.  "Listen to me! I am not angry with you! You should be in bed. You’re burning up! I am afraid that your fever is worse. Did you drink the draught?”

 

“Yes…”

 

“Are you sure that Milady meant no harm?”

 

“No…” A violent shiver wracked his body. D’Artagnan instinctively tightened his hold on him. “I’ve got you, brother," he whispered placing a gentle kiss on his hair. He was so frightened! Why had Athos ordered him to take care of Aramis?! He was practically useless!

 

He knew he needed to find Athos and the doctor. However, Aramis’ body language pleaded with him to stay, even if the Spaniard told him to go.

 

“We’ll save him! We know their plans.”

 

“We know nothing." Aramis' voice was dull. "Our captive knows nothing. We even don’t know if the child is still at Court...”

 

“Aramis… you're right! He knows nothing. So he may be wrong about the Dauphin!”

 

The Spaniard hid his face in the crook of d’Artagnan’s arm.

 

“What’s wrong?” asked the alarmed boy.

 

“Everything," whispered the marksman.

 

_God, you cannot be so cruel! Please…_

 

He was unable to help his friend through his physical pain. He was unable to comfort him in any way. It was Porthos who should be here. He would know how to deal with the suffering Spaniard.

 

However… it was d’Artagnan who had shared the nightmare of torture with Aramis. The marksman had kept talking to him in order to anchor him through the worst.   The older man had sacrificed himself in order to save him. But now there was nothing he could do still to ease his brother’s pain-- physical or emotional.

 

He was so useless.

 

“Don’t die, Aramis! I need you," he whispered into the medic’s hair.

“That would be too easy… it’s not going to happen," murmured the marksman.

 

And d’Artagnan agreed. If Anne and Aramis died, they could be together. Life was keeping them apart. Only death could unite them. But the Gascon would not allow his friend to die. They had survived too much…

 

He lifted his head when he heard a gasp. Constance was standing in the open door. She represented hope. She could offer him a way to summon Athos without him having to leave his brother.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brenwan, your idea has tempted me so much, I just had to write it down.
> 
> Riversidewren, thank you!
> 
>  


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos' POV

Athos

 

He reached the guard room, and sat down heavily on the bench. Luckily, no one was there.  

Unfortunately, there was no wine.

 

Athos cursed. He badly needed a drink. He wanted to erase his conversation with Milady from his brain.

 

He had sentenced his pregnant wife to death! He had sentenced their child to death! 

Milady was right. He would not have been able to love the child as it deserved to be loved, because he had decided to hate his wife. It was so easy to blame her for everything. It was so easy to remember only the good in his dead brother.

 

Damn, he needed wine!  But Tréville had put him in charge of the musketeer contingent at Fontainebleau. He was responsible for leading the investigation into the attempt to assassinate the Queen...the attempt which still might be successful.

 

The Queen's life was hanging by a thread, and his close friend was in grave danger from the very same poison. His close friend--who would be executed if the Queen died, by the order of the irrational King. Would he have to plead with his former wife, who was now the King's mistress, to save Aramis if the Queen died? Would his friend have the will to live if Anne died?

 

It was suddenly too much. He desperately needed to forget. He needed some peace.

 

“Athos?”

 

He was not aware that someone had entered the room.

 

“What’s wrong?”  He felt a hand on his arm.

 

_Everything._

“I am fine," he replied curtly.

 

Porthos did not seem convinced.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, voice gruff.

 

“No. What did you find out?”

 

“I found a lead. Well, maybe a lead. I told you about the missing girl – Julie Morin. I found her dead. Her throat had been cut. She must have seen something--and she was probably not alone. Her friend told me that she was meeting a boy from the village – Luc Tuel. Maybe he saw or heard something. Or maybe he killed her. I am going to go and talk to him.”

 

“Alright. But don’t go alone. Take someone with you."  Athos considered who would be the best man to choose.

 

The door opened, and Tannard entered.

 

“Do you have a duty assigned to you right now?" he asked.

 

“No, but I wanted to give you the report. Five of the Red Guards have disappeared. I have a list with their names. Their leader seems to be uneasy."

 

“They’re on the move. You’ll go with Porthos. He will explain the assignment to you. Be sure you return before evening.”

They nodded. Athos had a bad feeling about the mission.

As the doors closed behind the musketeers, he murmured, "Be safe."

 

He checked the roster of those assigned to guard duty, but no changes were necessary. It was clear that the Captain wanted to give him and his friends time to heal--even if the King required their presence. There was a hunt planned for tomorrow. The King had not yet decided to cancel it. Maybe he needed a different type of distraction than Milady could provide... or perhaps he had just forgotten to cancel it.

 

The thought of his former wife made Athos feel even more depressed. He stared at the dark surface of table, scrutinizing it as if he thought it was hiding answers from him. He felt as if more and more questions were attacking him. He really should think about the investigation. He should focus on the reports given by his companions, but all he could think of was her beautiful white dress. Beneath her still flat stomach, his--no, their--child had been growing...the child whom he had condemned to death…

 

No! He could not let the past distract him from the present. There were still was so many things to fight for... so many people to protect. He needed to concentrate. He stood up and started to pace the floor, reviewing in his mind the reports he had been given. Unfortunately, they knew too little. The plan was in motion, and the enemy was ready to strike, but they had no idea who the enemy really was.  Were the “True Musketeers” connected to Allancourt? After the accusations d’Artagnan had made, they could not interrogate the Comte without any proof. And they had no proof as of yet.

 

Etienne returned from his patrol in the forest.

 

“What did you find out?” asked Athos.

 

“Our patrols in the forest found multiple sets of tracks. It seems as if there are a lot of people on the move. Some of them are on horseback. However, we never actually saw anyone. These people are clearly not locals. Such an… army... is being funded and trained by someone with a lot of resources. I think…” 

 

Constance appeared, interrupting Etienne. Both musketeers knew she was keeping vigil at the Queen's bedside, so the paleness of her face alarmed them.

 

And Athos became more afraid when he heard how concerned she was for Aramis. He ran to the room where he had left his ailing brother. He was praying he would find him still alive. He threw the door open, and froze.

 

Aramis was lying in d’Artagnan’s arms. They were both on the floor. The boy's face was hidden in the medic’s unruly hair, and he was clearly crying. He finally looked up at Athos. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

 

“Aramis?” whispered Athos, fearing the worst.

 Aramis lifted his head slowly, as if he was in a dream. He looked awful, and was obviously very ill. But he was alive. Alive!

 

“Athos…?" The marksman breathed, his face showing his relief.

 

The former Comte was still in shock. He dropped to his knees near his brother.

 

“What’s going on? Where is the captive?” he asked. His hand needed to grasp the medic’s forearm. He needed to reassure himself that his brother was still alive--even if the heat radiating from him was alarming.

 

“Secured--in the next room," reported d’Artagnan. “He told us that they are planning to kidnap the Dauphin… Or that they have already done so. If Anne survives, they may use the child as leverage.  If she does not survive… they will kill him.”

 

“We need to either bring the Dauphin here, or to return to the Louvre." Athos' voice was sober.

 

“That's the King’s decision," muttered d’Artagnan.

 

“I’ll go and talk to him.”

 

“If you think that bringing the child here is a good idea, I can convince the Queen that it is the right decision," offered Constance.

 

Athos glanced at her. It was a risky idea, but to keep the royal heir safe, the risk was worth it. Especially for Aramis.

 

Athos questioned d’Artagnan about the interrogation. He could not hide a smirk when he heard about the ploy that the medic had used.

  
"I'll assign someone to guard the prisoner. I suggest that Aramis rest in our room," he concluded. "Porthos will be happy to find you there.”

 

“Where is Porthos?” asked Aramis.

 

“Following a lead in a nearby village.”

 

The Spaniard nodded, then leaned his head against the Gascon’s arm.

 

“Do you think you can walk if we help you?” asked the boy, gently stroking his hair.

 

Athos was amazed by d’Artagnan’s display of emotion.

 

_You left him with his seriously ill, possibly dying brother. How is he supposed to act? Porthos should be with him-- not d’Artagnan. But you left him because you thought it wise to give a less demanding duty to an injured musketeer. So much for a less demanding duty… watching his brother suffer…_

“Athos? Are you well?” Aramis' question caught him off guard.

 

“I'm worried," he muttered, suddenly pensive. His friend squeezed his arm in a comforting way.

 

They helped Aramis to their room. Once more, Athos left him with d'Artagnan while he went to ask for an audience. Obviously Louis was busy--most certainly with Milady.

 

Athos summoned Etienne.

“I need you to choose five musketeers and ride to Paris. Take everyone you fully trust from the garrison. You will need to organize the protection of the Dauphin. We know that there are plans to kidnap or kill him. These "True Musketeers” have men at Court, in the Red Guard… you must be extremely careful. If you think that it is too dangerous there, bring him here. Godspeed," he muttered.  He would have preferred to go along, but Tréville’s orders had been clear. Athos was in charge, so he could not leave.

 

He collected reports from the guards, and withdrew to the room he shared with his brothers. Aramis was asleep, but his fever was still high.

 

“Did you talk to Deroux?” asked Athos.

 

“Yes. He came and checked on him. He said that if the fever breaks, Aramis should recover.”  D’Artagnan's voice was soft, and fear was in his eyes.

 

“If…” whispered Athos.

 

_You should have tested the antidote on yourself…_

Athos sat heavily on his bad. Guilt started to rise like bile in his throat.

 

A quiet knock on the door interrupted his grim musing.

 

Tannard entered. He was covered in blood.

“Athos…” he began.

The lieutenant suddenly realized that his comrade’s eyes were dark, and filled with pain.

“What happened? Where’s Porthos?”

 

Fear was freezing his heart.

 

Tannard shook his head sadly. Suddenly, he was shoved away against the wall.  A furious, anguished Aramis gripped him by his shirt.

“WHERE IS PORTHOS?” shouted the Spaniard, his voice thick with despair.

 

“He fell," whispered Tannard.

 

He wanted to add something, but Aramis’ eyes rolled back.  He needed to act to stop the medic's fall.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riversidewren, thank you!
> 
> Should I be running for a cover? ;)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' POV

Porthos

 

He found the missing girl from the palace kitchen. She was lying among the rosebushes in a puddle of dried blood. Her body was already cold and stiff. She had more than likely been killed during the night. She was no older than sixteen, with a childish face and long brown hair. Her dark, unseeing eyes, still full of terror, stared fixedly at the sky. Porthos gently closed her eyes. 

 

He knew he should say a prayer but… that was Aramis' forte, not his. There were abrasions on the victim’s face, indicating that a large hand had brutally covered her mouth before delivering the fatal blow.

 

“Julie…” whispered Porthos sadly. His intuition had led him to this part of gardens--to her. He guessed that she had seen or heard something important,...or the killer thought she had. Either way, it had cost the girl her life. Porthos gently took Julie in his arms. She deserved to be returned to her family. She deserved a proper burial.

 

He entered the palace by way of the kitchen door, and suddenly heard a high-pitched cry. A young woman rushed towards him--or rather towards his burden. She was around Julie’s age.

 

“Julie?!! What happened?!!”

 

“She is dead," he replied soberly. “I need a place to lay her body.”

 

The young woman nodded numbly, and led him to an empty storage room.

 

“Here…” She was crying now, and started to frantically wash the blood from the girl’s face. Her hands were shaking badly.

 

“Had you known her for long?” asked Porthos quietly.

 

“Yes, she is… was... my neighbor. We played together as children, then came to work here… she was only two years younger than me.”

 

“Does she have a family? Whom should I inform?”

 

“Her parents live in the village of Thomery, near the river. They have a little house in the apple grove.  Their family name is Morin."

 

“When was the last time you saw Julie?”

 

“Early evening... or maybe late afternoon. It was already dark. We were working together in the kitchen.”

 

“Why did she go outside?”

 

She hesitated.

 

“Mademoiselle…?” Porthos tried to keep his voice soft and nonthreatening. He felt awkward. Aramis usually dealt with crying women, not him.

 

“Marie… call me Marie, Monsieur…”

 

“I'm Porthos. Can you please answer my question?”

 

“She wasn't supposed to be outside… but… I agreed to cover for her, because Luc was waiting.”

 

“Luc…?”

 

“Luc Tuel. She was in love with him. They planned to marry this summer.”

 

“Where can I find him?”

 

“He also lives in Thomery...the third house on the left from the Morins.”

 

“Do you think he might have hurt her?”

 

She looked at him angrily.

 

“Luc??? Never!” she declared, her voice certain.

 

“Did you by chance hear anything unusual last night?”

 

“No… but I had a lot of work to do. I was mad at Julie when she didn't come back… but I thought… you can guess what I thought..." She blushed.

 

“Yes. Thank you, Marie. You have helped me quite a bit. I'm going to talk to her parents, and then to Luc.”

 

Porthos felt guilty about leaving the crying girl with the body of her friend, but he felt it was important that he question Luc as soon as possible. He went to find Athos.

 

He was relieved to find their leader in the impromptu office they had set up, but his relief quickly turned to worry when Athos showed no reaction to his entrance. The lieutenant was quite pale, but it was the pain in his eyes which troubled Porthos the most.

 

When Athos said he was fine, Porthos felt like punching him. He clearly was not fine! 

 

Porthos gave him a report. He had hoped to talk to his friend in private, but Tannard came in. A short time later, they were on the way to Thomery. The dark skinned musketeer was quite glad that Tannard was the one chosen to accompany him. He liked the man. He felt that there was a bond between the Inseparables and the men who helped them to find d’Artagnan. Those men had all earned his trust. The way they had treated Aramis and d’Artagnan was a testament to their worth.

 

However, Porthos still felt somewhat uneasy.

“I think we should talk to Luc first," he said. Tannard nodded in agreement.

 

They galloped through the forest. The rocks looked like sleeping monsters, and multiple places seemed ripe for an ambush. However, the musketeers reached the village without any problems.

 

“I’ll talk to the parents, and you talk to Luc," suggested Tannard.

 

"Good idea." 

 

Tannard rode on, and Porthos dismounted in front of a little wooden house. A woman carrying two buckets of water glanced at him fearfully.

 

He approached her. “I am looking for Luc. I need to speak to him." 

 

She dropped the buckets she was carrying, oblivious to the water splashing on her skirt. 

 

“What…? Why…?” She was clearly terrified.

 

“Madame, I really need to speak to him." Porthos tried to be polite, but he had the nagging feeling that time was of the essence in this case.

 

“Luc!” the woman called out.

 

A young man came into view. He was quite handsome, with dark brown hair and curious, bright eyes. He had obviously been working near the house.

 

“I am Porthos, of the King’s musketeers. You are Luc Tuel, I presume?”

 

The young man nodded.

 

"Did you happen to see Julie Morin last night?” asked the musketeer.

 

Luc hesitated.

 

“Answer me! This is important!"  Porthos was losing patience.

 

“I don’t want her to get in trouble…”

 

“Luc, she is dead.”

 

The young man paled. His eyes were full of dread.  “What? You must be mistaken!!”

 

Porthos put a hand on his arm. “Someone murdered her.”

 

“No, no, no… please no!” 

 

The boy was completely distraught. Porthos was sure he was innocent.

 

“Julie?!! Why?!! She did nothing wrong! We only kissed…”  The lad was in shock.

 

“You kissed and…?” the musketeer prompted.

 

“We heard someone coming, so I told her to go back to the kitchen… God… I… it’s my fault!"

 

“What did you do after she fled?”

 

“I hid in the bushes.”

 

“Did you hear anything?"

 

“Yes… there were two people talking.”

 

“What were they talking about?”

 

“How they should meet at the forester's house…One of them was quite furious. He was angry that something had not worked out according to plan. The other man's voice was too low to understand.”

 

“Could you recognize the voices if you heard them?”

 

“The angry one – yes.”

 

“Then you are coming with me.”

 

“Am I…. under arrest?!”

 

Porthos wanted to answer, but he heard a shout from Tannard.

 

“Riders! We should leave!”

 

“Take the boy on your horse!" ordered Porthos.  "You’re lighter than me!" 

 

Luc did not protest.

 

_Poor lad! He is still in shock._

 

Porthos mounted his horse, and they set off at a gallop, heading in the direction of the Palace. Someone shot at them, so he pulled his mount to a stop in order to answer with his own pistol. The bullet hit its target, although the shot was apparently not deadly. He heard the man’s scream, and rode up to Tannard.

 

“Take the lad to the Palace and keep him safe!” he shouted.

 

They managed to leave the village. Porthos rode just behind Tannard. He was not surprised when a bullet flew past his head. A few men were hidden near the road. He charged them, and Nuage managed to hit one of them with his hooves. The second man felt the impact of Porthos’ kick. The dark skinned man instinctively sensed the gun aimed at his head. He jumped from the horse and threw himself to the ground. The shot went wide. The musketeer managed to duck another bullet. He threw himself into the fight. He soon realized that both of his opponents were quite skilled with a blade, and were experienced in fighting dirty. 

 

He managed to send one of them to his knees with a well-aimed kick. The other man avoided his rapier and threw himself at the musketeer. They both landed on the ground. Porthos managed to avoid the hands which were grasping for his throat, but he felt a sting of a blade on his arm.

 

However, he knew he would soon have the upper hand. He was probably the best in the garrison at hand to hand combat.

 

He twisted his body, hoping to shake off his opponent. But suddenly, all resistance vanished. Porthos reflexively managed to position himself so that he was lying partially on his enemy, with a hand squeezing the man's throat. 

 

It was only  then that he realized they were falling.

 

He braced for the impact of the landing, but before he felt anything, darkness engulfed him. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riversidewren, thank you!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

Aramis

 

Porthos was dead. His beloved brother was gone.

The mere thought was suffocating.

Was there any reason to fight for a breath?

 

There were voices talking to him. Something touched his face. A cold drops of a liquid--something like tears.

His tears? Was he crying?

How could he feel so hot when everything inside him was frozen? The coldness was spreading out from his heart. He could feel his soul shattering. With each labored breath, another piece of his soul was gone.

 

He recalled the promise he had given. Why was he thinking about that now?

“I promised Porthos, not you," he whispered--or intended to whisper.

“You took him from me…" he moaned, as another spike of pain pierced his soul.

 

He wanted to escape the pain.

More than anything, he desired the numb emptiness of death.

Not to feel.

Not to suffer.

Not to exist.

 

Because as long as he existed, he suffered.

 

Porthos had been his anchor--his reason to live after Allancourt had taken away his dignity and his zest for life. He had been a plaything in hands of his captors. He had done what had been necessary to please them. The shame had threatened to engulf him. Only one question had kept him from losing his mind. Could be really be worthless if Porthos still wanted him as his brother? Would his friend really make such a huge mistake? He believed in Porthos’ judgment enough to allow himself to hope that if his brother was fighting for him, he was worth fighting for.

 

But Porthos was gone.

There would be no more of his laugh or his touch.

The life they had shared was over.

A world without his dearest brother was unacceptable.

And he could not patch him up this time.

He could not save him from Death.

 

 

There was an open, bleeding wound in the place of their brotherhood. A fatal wound.

 

He could hear himself whimpering again, repeating one name over and over.

This was not the first time he had called out for Porthos while in the grip of a fever. But for the first time, he knew he was calling out in vain. And it was far more than he could bear.

 

“Aramis, you need to fight!" He vaguely heard someone talking to him.

“No… I need to find Porthos. To be with him. He died alone! You abandoned him!”

A voice was telling him some platitudes that he knew were lies. A voice was trying to convince him to breathe.

 

But it could not reach him in that cold, bitter darkness.

 

Athos…

D’Artagnan…

They will manage without him. It was a pity he had never had had a chance to teach d’Artagnan how to properly care for wounds. Hopefully Tréville would send someone on missions with them who had some skill in medicine…

He should have made that request. But now it was too late…

 

D’Artagnan will finally be able to forget about his ordeal, because Aramis' presence will not constantly remind him of it.

Athos will be relieved that he will no longer have to worry about his friend doing something stupid as far as the Queen or his son…

 

Anne…

The Dauphin…

His love was tainted. They would be safer without him.

He had nothing to offer them.

 

Anne…

 

He was standing near her bed. She was sleeping. The Captain was holding her hand. He seemed so tired.

Aramis approached her.

 

The Captain looked around nervously, then checked her temperature. He relaxed, and there was a hidden smile in his eyes.

“The fever has broken," he informed Deroux, clearly relieved. The doctor examined Anne.

 

“She will be fine. She just needs to rest,"  he stated, a smile appearing on his face.

 

Aramis murmured a prayer of thanksgiving, and gently touched her cheek. His hand never found her face--it just passed through it.

 

 

Waves of heat and cold hit him.

He murmured his farewell, his voice broken. He loved Anne, but he realized that without his brother, there was no place for him among the living.

 

Suddenly, he saw Athos. His brother was holding Aramis' hand, alternately mumbling apologies and pleas. 

 

“Athos… don’t… I am not worthy of your pain… Grieve the person you ought to… our brother.”

 

The musketeer gently kissed his hand. Aramis could not stand seeing the tears of his leader, who was usually so stoic.

 

“Take care of d’Artagnan… you’ll be fine," he murmured.

 

He was immersed in the freezing darkness. He had the impression was under water. And he took in an agonizing breath. He could feel the frigid water filling his lungs.

 

But he was still aware of his loss. The pain of it was burning up his soul.

 

“Porthos…”

The wordless litany.

One name repeated as a prayer.

As a summons.

As a lost lifeline.

 

_I am here brother_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riversidewren, thank you


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos' POV

Athos

 

Aramis was unconscious. They put him in bed. D’Artagnan got some cold water, and started to sponge his feverish brother’s face and neck. His hands shook only a little…

 

“Tannard, give me your report!" Athos felt as if he was falling into the abyss. He fought hard to control the emotions which were trying to overwhelm him. He was sinking. He felt despair entering his body like water entering a drowning man’s lungs.

 

“A girl from the palace kitchen was murdered in the garden, probably because she witnessed something she shouldn't have. She was not alone, but was with her… friend – Luc Tuel. We went to Thomery to inform the girl’s family about her death, and also to question Luc. I broke the news to her family, the Morins. Porthos went to question the boy. I was just about to join him when I saw some riders approaching. We needed to get out of there, and Porthos decided that we should take Luc with us. Since I am lighter, the boy rode with me. Our pursuers started to shoot at us, but we managed to escape the village. We were attacked again in the forest. I saw Porthos… fall from a rock. He had ordered me to get Luc to safety, no matter what happened, so I didn't stop... but…I saw him…  He was lying motionless, and there was a lot of blood."

 

Athos bowed his head. “We must retrieve his body. Are you feeling up to showing us the way? And what about this Luc?”

 

“He is being guarded by Ronchard. I don’t know why Porthos decided to take him with us, but it was the right decision. The bandits tried to kill him. I’ll lead you to… Porthos.”

 

“I’m going with you," declared d’Artagnan. He was very pale, and his eyes were bright with unshed tears.

 

Athos wanted to protest. He wanted d’Artagnan to stay here--with him. With Aramis.  He was very afraid that the medic would eventually succumb to his fever. But he understood that it would be extremely selfish to keep the boy by his side. D’Artagnan had been helplessly watching his brother's torment. Now, he needed to act.

 

“Take two men with you and… bring him back," he said in a low voice, desperately fighting to keep his voice from wavering. 

They nodded, and left.

 

As the door closed, he whispered, "Be safe."

 

He had wished the same for Porthos, and now he was dead.

 

Death had finally managed to separate the Inseparables. The future was also looking grim, as Athos feared that Aramis would soon follow his beloved brother. When he touched the medic's cheek, he could tell that his fever had spiked. He took d’Artagnan's place on the bed. Dipping the rag into the cool water, he put in on the marksman’s face. It was then that he heard it. A broken whisper.

 

“Porthos?”

 

“D’Artagnan has gone to get him," he murmured, trying to calm his friend.

 

“No… he’s dead… you sent the lad for his body…”

 

Athos took Aramis’ hand in his own.

“Please, fight! I need you. Don’t leave me…”

 

“You left him to die...”

 

_Yes, I left him--no, actually, I sent him to his death. And I wasn’t there for him in his last moments. Just as I wasn’t for Anne…_

“Aramis…please, live! Please… I cannot make it without both of you…”

 

“Porthos… you took him from me… my promise… I made Porthos a promise… not you…”

 

“Aramis…” Athos could not continue. He stared at his brother’s pale face, which was now covered with a thin sheen of sweat.

 

A tear fell down the marksman’s cheek. Followed by another one. Then another.

 

“Porthos…” he pleaded, his voice desperate.

 

Athos wanted to scream. He gently stroked the medic’s hair, but his brother flinched at his touch.

 

“Don’t leave me...please!" the swordsman choked.

 

He had always known that keeping Aramis alive after Porthos’ death would be nearly impossible... but he could not accept losing the marksman so quickly.

 

After Porthos’ death.

His brother was gone.

They would never again hear his booming laugh. 

He would never again tease Aramis. 

He would never again put his own life on the line to protect his brothers, despite knowing the price he might pay...

 

_In our last conversation, I lied to him… and then I sent him to his death._

He changed the cloth on Aramis face. It seemed to be doing nothing to lower his temperature.  Suddenly, it was all too much.

 

“You stupid, selfish bastard!!” he growled. "It's not fair for you to leave me like this...”

 Athos' voice trailed away. Who was he to speak about what was fair?

 

He tried to drip some water into the marksman’s mouth, but failed. He should have known that his brother would not cooperate. He watched as the liquid trickled down the Spaniard's neck.

 

“Porthos…” 

A whispered litany.

 

Athos was at a loss. He covered his brother with a wet, cold sheet. Aramis gasped when the material touched his burning skin. He started to shiver violently, then curled up in a ball, moaning softly. Finally, he fell silent, which was even worse. Athos sat listening to his uneven breathing, fearing that every breath might be his friend's last.

 

A knock on the door made him turn his gaze away from Aramis.

Tréville opened the door, then froze.

“What happened?!!” he asked, shock evident on his face. 

 

“Porthos got himself killed," replied Athos, his voice heavy with fatigue.

 

He ignored that fact that the Captain paled.

 

“Give me a report!" 

 

Athos sighed, ashamed that he had not yet talked to Luc Tuel. The concern for the boy's safety had cost Porthos his life. He told his commanding officer everything that he knew. Tréville listened to him in silence. Athos realized that neither of them could tear his gaze away from Aramis.

 

“I… want to go to Paris to bury them… and to check on the Dauphin," finished Athos.

 

“Them…” the Captain shook his head sadly, his eyes still fixed on Aramis. “Leave me with him for a moment…"

 

_It had been a plea, not an order._  


 

Athos left. He closed the door, then took in a deep breath. The air in the corridor was cool and fresh. He stood still for a moment, then leaned back against the wall. He should go and question the boy, but he hoped someone would do it for him. He had no interest in speaking with anyone right now. Instead, he ordered one of the palace servants – a young woman, who appeared quite frightened when he hailed her--to bring him some wine. She returned, bearing a tray with a bottle of wine and a glass. He took the tray from her hands, and placed it on the floor as she scurried away.  He uncorked the bottle with his teeth, then took several large gulps. The liquid did nothing to ease the pain of his guilt.

 

“Athos?” One of the musketeers approached him. "The poor lad that Tannard brought in thinks he may be able to recognize the voice of one of the bandits.”

 

“Take care of him. And wait for the opportunity for him to do so," replied Athos.

 

It was important, but it had not been worth Porthos’ life.

 

The Captain came out of the room before Athos finished the bottle.

“How is the Queen?” the swordsman asked.

“She will recover."

 

Athos nodded, then returned to the room. Aramis was restless, and Athos could read the name on his lips--the one he repeated over and over. Athos fell to his knees. He took his brother’s hand in his own, and leaned his cheek against Aramis’ palm.

 

The medic gasped, then lay still. Athos felt as if his heart were breaking. After a long moment, the Spaniard took in a shaky breath.

 

But Athos knew that the next time, the Spaniard might never take another breath

.

He knew deep in his heart that Aramis would not last until dawn. And the fear was suffocating him.

 

_How am I supposed to live without them?!! How??!_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Riversidewren


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d'Artagnan's POV

D’Artagnan

 

_Porthos was dead._

 

No! D’Artagnan refused to believe it.

He would not grieve his friend until he saw the dead body with his own eyes...or rather until Aramis confirmed that Porthos was dead. He knew it could be possible for a person with no medical training to make a mistake.

 

They rode in silence. It was obvious that Tannard was consumed by guilt, even though he had had no choice but to follow Porthos' orders. The dark skinned musketeer had risked his life to get Luc to safety, and he had been correct in believing that the boy was their only lead to the conspirators. The Gascon frowned when he saw that Tannard swaying in his saddle.  His comrade was covered in blood. He knew that Luc had not been injured, and Tannard had been nowhere near Porthos when the big man had fallen.

 

He glanced at his companion, and said quietly, “You’re injured."

 

“It’s nothing," mumbled Tannard. His eyes were full of remorse.

 

D’Artagnan sighed. “No matter what happened to Porthos...it is not your fault!”

 

“I should have… protected him somehow.”

 

The Gascon huffed in response, but he understood Tannard's feelings.  He knew the man was not guilty of dereliction of duty. However, he also knew that he would have felt exactly the same.

 

Tannard suddenly pulled to a stop.

“Something is wrong," he muttered.

 

The musketeers unsheathed their weapons. The forest was quiet around them, but it was not an unnatural quiet. After all, it already dark. The birds were silent, but the nocturnal rhythms of the forest were beginning. Various rustles and hums were heard in the foliage.

 

”There should be a dead man here. I shot him in his chest," murmured Tannard.

 

“They must have back for the bodies." D'Artagnan's voice was grim. He was aware that even if Porthos had survived the fall, the bandits would probably have killed him. The Gascon felt sick. Tannard ran towards the cliff, with d’Artagnan close on his heels. They pulled to a stop near the edge of the rock, and saw only darkness below them.

 

“I’ll climb down," declared the Gascon.

The way down was more difficult that he had anticipated. However, he managed to find a crevice which provided a good handhold. Finally, he was low enough that he could risk jumping to the ground. He landed quite softly.

 

“I need a torch!" he shouted, then caught the requested item when it was tossed to him.

 

"What do you see?" Tannard called down to him.

.

“He's not here!  All l can see is a lot of blood... and some tracks. I think he was still alive after he fell, and they took him prisoner." His blood boiled at the thought of his wounded brother being held captive, and probably tortured. What if the “True Musketeers” were working for Allancourt?!

 

D’Artagnan's mind conjured up images of Porthos being abused, and he instantly felt sick. He could not stand the idea of the big man's face being transformed into the same sort of stony mask that Aramis now habitually wore.

 

_No!!_

The Gascon shook his head violently, and winced as his nearly forgotten headache made a reappearance.

 

_Focus! The tracks!_

 

He started to follow them, and soon found a steep path.

“Tannard! Bring the horses down! We have a trail to follow!"

 

He hoped that bandits were not close enough to hear him. He stopped to listen, but all he heard were his fellow musketeers cautiously descending towards him.

 

Even by the dim light of the torches, the tracks were still visible. However d’Artagnan had to stay on foot in order to make sure that he did not lose them. He desperately hoped that he would find his brother still alive. All he could focus on was bringing Porthos back to his friends. To Aramis. He tried not to think about the medic’s condition. He knew that his will to live depended on Porthos.

 

The tracks led to a path. There was a faint smell of smoke, and d’Artagnan stopped.

“We should leave the horses here. I’ll scout ahead to see what's going on. If you hear three hoots of an owl--or gunshots-- that means I need you. Hide near the road, and extinguish the torches," he ordered. The Gascon was somewhat surprised that his fellow musketeers followed his orders. After all, he was the youngest man among them.

 

_And the one who was broken._

He left the path, and started to approach the source of the smoke. He stopped when he heard the sound of horses' hooves approaching from different directions. Then he heard a sound which seemed very odd in this setting. Was it a whimper? The whimper of a crying child?

 

He crawled a little closer.

 

“Here. Take the Spanish bastard! Is his mother still alive?" a man growled.

 

“I think so. Good work! Where is the wet nurse?”

 

“She tried to be courageous, stupid woman. She paid for it with her life. We'll need to get another one from the village. I don’t know how long the child can hold on without food.”

 

“You're right. We need him alive for now. Go to the village, find a woman, and be back here before dawn!" The man took the crying baby and headed towards the house.

 

_The child… was it the Dauphin?!!!_

 

D’Artagnan felt his heart hammering in his chest. He wanted to leap into action, but knew that he needed to wait. Only one of the newcomers went inside. The other two rode in the direction of Thomery. The Gascon waited until the hoofbeats had died away, then circled the house. He saw three or four people inside. Six horses were in the barn.

 

A strange heap against the wall of the barn caught his attention. He drew close enough to look under the cloth covering it. He found six dead bodies, all covered in blood.

 

He did not want to move them, but he could easily see the hands and legs. It was enough. He was sure that even in the dim light, he would have recognized Porthos’ gloves or boots. And he did not. Hope surged in his heart.

 

He withdrew to his companions.

 

When d’Artagnan reported what he had witnessed, one of the musketeers, Philippe, was clearly shocked. "Do you think this child is the Dauphin?!"

 

“Probably, yes. We must rescue him, and get him to the safety of the Palace," declared the Gascon.

 

They secured their horses, then stealthily approached the house and took up their positions. The hoot of an owl sounded strangely loud in the now silent forest. Then the silence was broken by the report of pistols and the clang of metal.

 

They managed to surprise the bandits. Their opponents tried to fight back, but were soon overwhelmed. D’Artagnan seized the child lying on the bed, then threw himself at the doors. Someone tried to stop him, but d’Artagnan dodged his opponent’s blade, slashing the man as he ran past. The second man never even got a chance to raise his sword. He was shot by Tannard, and fell dead.

 

D’Artagnan whistled to Nuit, and the horse galloped to his master.

 

“Go!" shouted Tannard.

 

The Gascon mounted, shielding the child with his own body, and galloped away. He knew that Tannard would be right behind him. Philippe and Norin would stay behind in order to save the woman who had been kidnapped from the village to serve as a wet nurse

 

D’Artagnan rode at breakneck speed through the night forest. The path was barely visible, but Nuit was nimble, and the Gascon hoped that he would remain sure-footed. No one tried to stop them. When they swept into the Palace courtyard, the horses were nearly exhausted. 

 

D’Artagnan tossed his reins to Tannard, then ran into the building, holding the child tightly against his chest.

 

He went straight to Constance’s room. He knocked softly, hoping that she was still awake. Constance opened the door. She looked sleepy, but smiled at her sweetheart.

 

“Good news! The Queen will recover!”  She then noticed the bundle in d’Artagnan's arms.

 

“Does the Dauphin have any distinguishing characteristic that you know of?" he asked. "Maybe something like a birthmark?" 

 

“Yes! On his back, he has a birthmark that looks like the sun. Do you think?..." her eyes widened.

 

They went into the empty room, and Constance lit a candle. They unwrapped the baby, then took off his shirt. She gasped in shock, and looked up at d’Artagnan.

 

“It’s him!" she whispered.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Riversidewren!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treville's POV

Tréville

 

He watched over the young Queen.  She was feverish, and tossed restlessly in her sleep. Her hand was still in his. The fact that he could feel the light pressure of her fingers gave him some hope. He made room for Deroux, who came in to check on the Queen. The musketeer commander watched the doctor intently.  When Deroux remained silent, Treville could wait no longer. 

 

“Well? What do you think?!"

 

“Her temperature is still too high," answered the doctor soberly. “However, it’s not going any higher, so I suppose that gives us a bit of hope."   The man seemed to feel uncomfortable with the Captain watching him, and left soon after.

 

Tréville changed the cloth on Anne’s forehead, and was startled when he saw her eyes open.

 

“Jean…?” she whispered. She sounded so vulnerable-- and so young.

 

“Yes?”  At this point, it felt awkward to address her by her title. 

 

“I know… what happened. I want you to help them.”

 

“Anne…" He was surprised that she had been so direct.

 

“Don’t want… them dead.”

 

So, it was  _him_  ratherthan  _them_ , he thought. But perhaps he was mistaken. Anne wanted Constance to be happy, and the relationship between Madame Bonacieux and d’Artagnan was not exactly a secret.  He suspected that the couple thought they were quite discreet. They had tried to convince themselves not to love each other, but had failed miserably.

 

And that was good. The Captain wanted his musketeers to be in good--although preferably legal--relationships with women. D’Artagnan and Constance could never live together as man and wife, but he thought that the young woman would make an excellent wife for a musketeer. Tréville  was sure that Constance would marry the Gascon if her husband ever died. If that ever happened, she would have his blessing.

 

“I’ll do my best to help them. You can trust me.”

 

“I know… did he come to see how I was doing?”

 

“Who?” He was not sure whom she was referring to. 

 

_Is she really in love with Aramis? Has he enchanted her in the same way he has so many other women? Or is she someone special?  Actually....I really don't want to know the answers to these questions._

“My husband."  She looked up at him shyly.

 

“No, he hasn't come. I am sure he is very busy," he replied, feeling incredibly awkward.

 

A shadow crossed her face. “I am sure he is...with his new lover." 

 

He could not allow himself give in to the anger--no, the absolute fury--he wanted to feel. He had vowed to give his allegiance and fidelity to Louis. However, if he had been any other man treating his wife in such a shameful way…

 

_No! Stop it! Your thoughts are dangerously close to treason..._

“I am sorry... I should not speak badly about your Sire," she said, her eyes full of remorse. “About my sire," she added with a sigh.

 

“Sleep, Anne. You need to sleep. When you are feeling better, everything else will be better…”

 

She gave him a sad smile.

 

Before she could ask, he quickly said, “I’ll stay with you." She already had asked him once, and the misery on her face had pained him.

 

She curled up on the bed, and dozed off. He sat close by, her hand still in his. Fortunately, he was too tired to think. He sponged her face from time to time, but felt as if he was in a dream-like state. His eyes were still open, but his mind wandered too far away for him to follow his own thoughts.

 

He had a strange feeling that he was being watched. The Captain knew it had nothing to do with the fact that Constance or Deroux were present--and the room seemed perfectly safe.  However, the odd feeling nagged at him, and he could not help but feel apprehensive. He decided to check on Anne.

 

Relief flooded through his body when he realized that the Queen’s fever had finally broken. He called to the doctor, who confirmed his observation.

 

The doctor smiled. “She will be fine. She just needs rest." He was clearly relieved. The Captain realized that he liked this man. He was even tempted to offer him a position as the garrison’s physician. The last one had left Paris and retired to his family’s estate.  Now, Aramis provided much of the medical care, but for serious injuries, they still had to call for a doctor. There were a few trusted physicians that were usually available, but it would be preferable to have one on site in the garrison. 

 

_Aramis_. He was quite worried about his marksman, and decided he should go and check on him. He gently withdrew his hand from Anne's. He did have not to say anything, as Constance came and took his place.

                                                                                                                                             

He went to the room where his musketeers were staying. It was quite annoying that his men did not have private rooms in a palace this size. However, in the case of the Inseparables, this had proved to be advantageous. Right now, Aramis and d’Artagnan needed their brothers more than ever. He sighed, then knocked on the door.  When the Captain received no answer, he became worried, and opened the door. He froze when he saw Aramis. The marksman was flushed with fever, and looked deathly ill.

 

And then Athos broke the news of Porthos’ death. Tréville stared at his lieutenant in shock. It took a few minutes before he had recovered enough to demand a full report. And even then, he could not believe what he was hearing. He knew that his men were telling the truth, but he refused to believe that Porthos was really dead. It was highly probable, but not 100% certain. However, he saw that Athos had no hope...and neither did Aramis.  Now he recognized the drops on his marksman’s cheeks as tears, and asked to be left alone with him.

 

Athos went out, and closed the door behind him.

 

Tréville sat down heavily on the chair. He needed to somehow get through to the fevered Spaniard -- to give him some of the fragile hope he was hanging on to. He wanted Aramis to live -- to fight. The Captain knew, or rather guessed, the strength of the bond between Porthos and Aramis. He feared that the Spaniard would lose his will to live in the wake of the news of his friend's death. But still – Porthos had only been reported dead, not brought back dead. There was a huge difference. The Captain could list several musketeers who had beaten the odds before, Porthos among them.

 

Tréville took Aramis’ hand, wincing when he felt how hot it was.

“Aramis… Porthos may yet be alive. And he will be furious when he comes back and finds you dead because you just gave up. Fight!” He hesitated, and tried to assess if the marksman had heard him.

 

“Aramis… I have always tried to treat all my men equally.  I believe this is the only way a commanding officer should act. But some of you have a special place in my heart. You are one of them. You are my soldier, but deep in my heart, I feel that you are a member of my family. You and Porthos both…now, If you ever mention this in the future, I will deny everything I've said, but… I need you to know that I want you to live. Your life is precious to all of us. Even to the Queen… You are the light of her life… so… I order you-- no, I BEG you!  Please still be alive tomorrow morning. I need you to live!” He gently squeezed the Spaniard’s hand.

 

“Porthos…?” whispered Aramis.

 

“He’ll be back.” Tréville hated himself for saying something which might be a lie...but Aramis did not even seem to hear him. He just continued to repeat his beloved brother’s name.

 

The Captain sighed, and left the room. He found Athos drinking in the corridor, and laid a hand on his arm. He was not exactly sure if he did it to offer comfort, or to seek it. 

 

Athos merely nodded, then went back to his brother. And Tréville returned to the Queen.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riversidewren, thank you.
> 
> In the next chapter you’ll finally find out what happened to Porthos!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' POV

_Porthos_

 

_I will never again try to keep up with Athos when we are out drinking…_

 

It was not the first time he had made that vow. God, he felt awful. His head was killing him. He felt as if someone was splitting it open with an axe. He reached up with his hand in order to shield his eyes from the light. His hand was covered in something sticky, and the smell of it worsened the nausea.

 

Blood.

Where was Athos?

Athos would never leave him in the gutter.

 

He thought back to when he had regained consciousness after his birthday party. He had woken up in the morning to find himself lying near a cadaver in a Paris street. He felt the urge to get away from this place. Immediately.

 

He doubted he would remain conscious if he tried to stand up, so he started to crawl. He opened his eyes, and was relieved to see that it was already dark. What he did find not comforting was the fact that he was in the forest, lying on top of a smashed body. He looked up, and saw a rocky ledge towering above him. He had the vague impression that he had fallen from it. If that had indeed happened, he was quite lucky. He was awake, and his limbs seemed to be obeying his commands.

 

_There, it's not so bad… now, get away from this place… you can think later…_

He started to crawl in the direction of some dense bushes.  A jolt of searing pain shot down his leg, and he nearly cried out.

 

_That is not so good…_

He sat up, and tried unsuccessfully to fight off the nausea. He found that vomiting only increased the intensity of his headache.

 

The urge to move grew stronger. Porthos reminded himself that there was a reason why he was sitting instead of crawling--and that reason was pain.  He probed his left leg, expecting that the bone would give way under his fingers. However, when he found the most painful area, he realized that there was a stick protruding from his leg. He must have somehow gotten entangled in it when he had been crawling. 

 

He could hear horses in the distance, and that spurred him into action. He pulled himself up against a young tree, and somehow managed to remain upright. He hobbled away, reassured by the thought that he would be more difficult to track than if he had kept crawling.

 

When he had moved a distance away from the place where he had awoken, he wondered if he should stop and try to treat his injuries. He decided against it. He was quite sure that his wounds needed precise cleaning, and he did not even have access to water. He needed Aramis.

 

Aramis.

The poison.

The hunt.

Allancourt.

The "True Musketeers.”

 

Words and images flew through his head.

 

Julie and Luc.

Tannard.

 

The fight. He had a vague memory of ordering his fellow musketeer to take Luc to safety, but he did not remember the details of the fight. He could only hope that Tannard and the boy were safe. If they were, they were already at the palace. Another reason for him to get there as soon as possible.

 

He stumbled on a root. Pain, in combination with his nausea, almost overwhelmed him.

 

_It's not that cold tonight. You should just lie down...they will find you tomorrow._

It was tempting. His wound would probably be infected by morning, but perhaps it wouldn't be very bad. And maybe some of the effects of his concussion would resolve by then.

 

He suddenly found himself sitting with his back against the large trunk of a tree. After a short struggle, he opened his eyes again. His vision finally focused, and he found himself staring accusingly at another stick. This was a much shorter one, and it was protruding from his right side. He had no idea how bad this new injury might be.

 

He thought about Aramis, and how upset his closest friend would be if he found him dead. No, he wouldn't be upset. He would be in despair. With a growing sense of dread, he realized that Aramis might lose the will to live if he died. He felt his heart in his throat when he thought about the report that Tannard would give to the Captain at the palace. If his comrade had had the chance to look down from the ledge, he would have seen a gruesome sight.  

_Aramis will not believe that you’re dead. Not without any evidence._

_Shut up!_   He scowled at himself, but the feeling of dread would not leave him. Something was terribly wrong.

 

He got up carefully, and waited for the nausea and dizziness to diminish a bit before he started to walk. He was so tired, and felt incredibly miserable. However, this strange fear would not allow him to stop. He found a long stick, which helped him a little, and dutifully put one leg in front of the other.

 

_At least this one helps. The two in that are stuck in me are a bit annoying._

He felt more and more detached. If he had been asked why he had chosen to walk in that direction, he would not have been able to come up with an answer. He was simply too tired to consciously choose a path, and went in the direction his body took him.

 

He was quite surprised when he found himself squinting against the bright light given off by the torches at the gate leading to the palace gardens. So he was there. He had no idea how long he had been walking.

 

“Porthos?!” The musketeer who was on guard duty was shocked. He said something else, but Porthos ignored him, and kept on going. He needed to see Aramis. After that, he could just lie down and rest for a day or two.

 

He entered the palace. All of a sudden, he was standing in front of the door to their room.

_Finally!_

He opened the door, and found that he could not breathe. Athos was kneeling near Aramis’ bed. He was sobbing quietly, his face hidden in the medic’s palm. The marksman was deathly pale. A rag was on his face, but almost appeared discarded--as if it was not needed anymore.

 

Porthos' mind did not want to accept the scene in front of him.  He was too late. Athos was mourning his beloved brother.

 

_I was not here. I was taking a nap in the forest, while he was losing the fight for his life. I was not with him in his last hours. I abandoned him, just as Marsac did._

He suddenly wanted to be far away from there. He wanted this image to be a figment of his imagination-just another part of the nightmare he dreamt so often.

 

Then Aramis’ lips moved. There was no sound, but Porthos read his own name. In one swift motion, he was on the bed, and his brother was in his arms.

 

“I am here, brother, I am here…” he said softly, wincing when he felt how hot the marksman was. Aramis sank into his embrace, gripping Porthos' jacket with one hand.

 

“Porthos?!”

He heard Athos’ broken voice.

“The one and only,"  Porthos replied lightly, then looked into his brother's reddened eyes. His voice became urgent.

 "What did Deroux say?!"

 

Athos grasped his forearm.                                               

“You’re alive!”

“Yes, I am. What did Tannard tell you?”

“That you fell…”

 

Porthos closed his eyes. Aramis had believed him dead, and had given up. The big man could only hope that his friend was not too far gone.

 

“Aramis!" he said in a loud voice, cupping the medic’s face. When there was no response, he tried again.

“Aramis! Look at me, brother!  Open those marvelous eyes of yours and look at me!” he ordered, his voice breaking.

 

Porthos could not bear to watch his brother die--all because the medic believed him dead!

 

Aramis moaned softly, and his eyelids fluttered.

Athos lit more candles, and Porthos did not even squint.  He was so focused on his brother that the pain of the light hitting his eyes did not even register in his brain.

 

Finally, a pair of unfocused brown eyes opened.

"Aramis?”

 

“Porthos?”  The Spaniard's voice was full of pain. “Take me with you!" he pleaded, clinging to the big man desperately. "Don’t leave me!”

 

“Aramis, I am alive! I'm not going anywhere, and I'm not letting you go anywhere. Do I make myself clear?" 

 

The medic, still in a daze, nodded, then hid his face against Porthos’ chest. The big man cradled him in his arms.

“I’m here," he repeated softly.

 

After a long while, the Spaniard drew back, his eyes full of worry.

“You’re wounded!” he whispered hoarsely.

 

“A little," Porthos admitted, feeling the pain and exhaustion finally kick in.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Riversidewren.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos' POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A small gift for my awesome Beta  - Riversidewren as she likes guilty Athos : )**

Athos

 

He knew that his heart would break if Aramis’ stopped. The problem was that his own death would not be immediate. The suffocating grief would finally end him, but first, he would experience the agony of loneliness. He deserved it. After all, he was the murderer, not his wife. He was the one to blame for Thomas’ death--not Anne. He was the one who had condemned Anne and his – their -- child.

 

He had not stopped Aramis from recklessly exposing himself to the poison. If the marksman had not been poisoned, he would have gone with Porthos--and then they would have returned together. Alive. But Athos had failed to protect Aramis. In doing so, he had sent another brother to his death.

 

And now d’Artagnan had not returned. Was he guilty of another death? Had he killed his youngest brother?!

 

Aramis’ breath hitched, and Athos hid his face in the heated skin of the medic's palm. He hoped that the Spaniard did not feel pain. But that hope was nothing more than a false hope. Once again, he was trying to lie to himself. Even if Aramis was too far gone to feel physical pain, despair was still shattering his soul. Athos wanted to scream every time he felt Aramis’ soundless pleas.

 

He finished the wine. It gave him no relief, and he continued his silent vigil. Try as he might, he could not remember any of the good moments they had shared. All he could recall were the times when he had failed--the days he had been cruel or rough to Aramis. Athos had been furious with his brother when he had discovered him in bed with the Queen. It had been hard for him to accept that the marksman had chosen to betray the King in such a manner.

 

Although they had never directly discussed Aramis' affair with the Queen,  Athos had the uneasy feeling that Aramis’ betrayal would bring down France--just as Lancelot’s betrayal had destroyed Camelot.

 

He had been cruel to Aramis. He had never truly forgiven him for that night in the convent. And now it was too late.

 

How Aramis could find the will to fight?

To carry on?

For whom?

For a broken ex-comte who had mercilessly castigated the marksman for his mistakes? While failing to acknowledge his own failures?

 

Aramis’ recklessness had given life to the Dauphin, but Athos' own failures had resulted in so many deaths. How could he expect to give Aramis a reason to live? He had disrespected and failed the Spaniard so many times...

 

And now he had made yet another mistake. He had thought it a wise to allow d'Artagnan to join the search for Porthos' body. But if he had stayed, perhaps the Gascon would have been able to convince Aramis to remain among the living.

 

“Aramis… I’m so sorry… I’ve failed you so many times…”

 

 

Why did such good men want to call him brother? He could not understand it.

But it would not last much longer. The Spaniard would follow his beloved brother, and then d’Artagnan would finally understand what a mistake he had made in choosing Athos as his mentor.

 

_I’ve failed them for the last time. And now Aramis is paying the ultimate price for my mistakes. Porthos would never have let him test the antidote on himself… I should have known better! I know Aramis!  I was well aware of his love for the Queen. I should have known…_

 

_I should have known Anne had spoken the truth about Thomas._

_And Thomas had been right about her to some degree._

_I should have known she was pregnant… But I wanted a child so badly...and she did not want to give me false hope before she was sure…_

Someone entered the room, but he paid them no heed. He sensed a sudden movement nearby, then heard Porthos’ voice. His head snapped up, and he found himself staring at his friend. Even in the dim light of the candle, Porthos looked awful. His face was covered in blood, but he seemed to be very much alive. Athos knew he should not be surprised. After all, the ghosts in his life were usually quite alive.

 

The dark skinned musketeer was sitting on the bed, holding Aramis close.

 

Athos held his breath. He wanted so badly for this dream to last just a little bit longer.

He watched as his friend cradled the marksman in his arms, just as he always did when Aramis was restless because of fever or nightmares.

 

“I’m here." Porthos’ whisper pierced Athos’ heart.

He watched, bewildered, as Aramis responded to his brother's presence. His hand clutched at Porthos' jacket frantically, and he seemed to disappear into Porthos' arms.

 

“Porthos!" whispered Athos. He was so afraid that his brother would disappear, and did not really even listen to the big man's reply. He snatched up Porthos' hand. Relief flooded through him when he felt a real hand beneath his palm.

 

“You’re alive!" He could not bring himself to break contact with his friend. 

“Yes, I am. What did Tannard tell you?” Porthos was still cradling Aramis in his arms.

“He said you fell…”

 

Porthos shook his head slightly, his eyes full of regret. He then focused on Aramis, trying to reach him.

 

_It is too late…He has drowned in his despair, because there was no one capable of helping him. I am useless. I am nothing but a burden. I should leave them. I should have died after I condemned Anne to death…If this is not a dream, I will leave when this is all over. Porthos is all Aramis needs… and D’Artagnan will finally understand that…_

“Athos!” The voice was weak, but it had the sharp edge of an order. “I need hot water-- a lot of hot water-- brandy, and my medical kit. Are you okay, Athos?” 

 

The lieutenant found himself gazing into Aramis’ worried eyes.

 

_My dying friend is asking me about **my**  welfare…_

It was only then that he realized that Aramis seemed to be somewhat lucid. Athos felt a sense of dread when he stood up and went to the door.  _What if this is only a dream?_  What if he returned to find Aramis on his deathbed, and Porthos lost to them?

 

The lieutenant hailed the first page he saw. He recited the list of items Aramis needed, and asked the boy to fetch them. The page gave the musketeer a deep bow, then edged past him, and broke into a run. The boy was clearly frightened.

 

The swordsman stood for a while in front of the door. What would he find behind it? He put his hand on the handle, but only found the courage to open it when he heard Porthos curse.

 

The big man was sitting on the bed, and his jacket was half off.

Aramis approached him with a dagger, and Porthos growled, "Don’t even think about trying to cut it!"

 

“Aramis, this is Porthos! You don’t want to hurt him!" Athos was completely confused.

 

“He doesn’t want to hurt me, but he wants to ruin my jacket!" snapped Porthos. "All because a stupid stick has pinned it to my body!"

 

“I have no way of knowing how deep it is embedded in your side," replied Aramis. His voice was weary, but he was trying to remain reasonable.

 

The swordsman realized that a branch was protruding from the dark skinned musketeer's side. The view was sickening. It was now clear why Aramis wanted to cut off the jacket. He was afraid of jostling the stick by pulling the jacket off.

 

“Athos, I need your help," the Spaniard said.

“What are you going to do?” asked Porthos, giving him a suspicious look.

“Do you trust me?”

“With my life--but not with my leather!"

 

Aramis sighed, but his hands never left his brother.

“Ok, I won’t cut it. Athos, I need you to take hold of the leather."  Turning to Porthos, the medic muttered,  "I promise I won't harm your precious jacket, but I'd rather not pierce your liver--or some other organ which is not optional."

 

Athos glanced at the medic with trepidation, but followed his instructions to the letter. He did not feel he deserved to hold his brother’s life in his hands. To be honest, he did not trust himself.

 

Aramis whispered something in Latin, his voice too low for the words to be completely intelligible. Athos froze for a moment, then looked at him quizzically. He saw a small smile on medic’s lips, and sighed with relief.

 

“A flesh wound. It barely entered the muscle. We just have to keep it clean," explained Aramis.

“There is no wine here," muttered Athos. Another thing that was his fault.

 

“Just keep light pressure on it until the brandy comes,"  instructed the medic. Suddenly, his eyes widened.

“Why are you collecting sticks?!” Athos’ gaze followed Aramis', and he saw another piece of wood embedded into Porthos' flesh.

 

“Well, I was in the forest…” muttered Porthos.

 

The medic sighed, and looked closer at the offending stick. Then he took hold of it, and gingerly started to pull on it. That action earned him a stream of colorful curses from Porthos.

 

“Next time, please find an alternative way to communion with nature," murmured the Spaniard.

 

“Should I knock him out?” Athos felt he had to ask the question, although it was the last thing he wanted to do.

 

“No…he hit his head. It is better for him to remains conscious. That way, we can monitor him for any change,"  answered the marksman.

 

A knock on the door announced the arrival of the page. The boy had brought all the required items.

“Quick, brandy! I need some now!" gasped Porthos. He was surprised when Athos immediately handed the bottle to him. The big man took several swigs, then muttered, “Alright, now you can stitch me up.”

 

“Hold him steady, Athos," Aramis ordered, his voice faltering.

 

“Will you be able to sew him up?” asked the swordsman, his face creased with worry. He was amazed that Aramis was still able to function.

 

“I think so." The medic was clearly exhausted. "There is not much to stitch-only this cut." He gestured at Porthos’ arm.

 

“What about the two wounds from the sticks?” asked Athos

“No, they are not bleeding that much, and I am afraid they are likely to become infected. I will put a poultice on them. Could you boil some water? Then take these flowers and… No, wait--when the water is ready, I will put the herbs in.”

 

Athos had the impression that talking was incredibly tiring for his brother.

 

_Or he realizes I am too stupid to trust with the poultice…_

It was a mystery to Athos as to how the Spaniard managed to stitch the cut without his hands shaking. However, when he started to apply a salve to the multiple bruises covering Porthos’ chest, his hands began to tremble a bit.

 

Athos gave the medic the hot water, and watched as the Spaniard went about the familiar procedure of preparing a poultice to fight off infection. He had witnessed it many times, but it still seemed like a sort of strange alchemy to him. While Aramis waited for the concoction to cool down, he meticulously cleaned both wounds.  Athos could not help but feel a bit sorry to see such excellent brandy used for the mundane task of tending wounds.

 

Finally, the medic applied the strange smelling poultice to the wounds. Although Porthos did his best to remain still, it was obvious that he was in quite a bit of pain. The marksman whispered his apologies.

 

Aramis finally put the last bandage on Porthos, then sat close to him, gripping his hand. He cast a longing glance at the beds that had clean, dry sheets.

 

“You take those two beds," Athos said, and quickly pushed the beds together.

Neither of his brothers reacted. In fact, they looked barely conscious, and sat slumped against each other.

 

“Porthos, I’ll help you first." Athos hauled the big man to his feet, and helped him hobble over to the bed. He knew he would never forget the look of betrayal in Aramis’ eyes when he took Porthos away from him.

 

He helped Porthos lie down, then was back for Aramis.

“Come on," he murmured, and grasped the medic's hand. It was not much warmer then his own skin.

 

“Your fever has broken!” Athos cried out with relief. He angrily blinked back the tears that threatened to fill his eyes. "Hang on, I’ll get you a fresh shirt.”

 

There was gratitude in the medic’s eyes, but he still needed Athos' help in order to change.

 

The swordsman glanced at the jug of water mixed with honey that Deroux had left for Aramis. He poured a cup, and sat near the Spaniard.

 

“You should drink this.”

 

Aramis was too tired to answer. He glanced at Athos and nodded, then accepted the cup and dutifully drained it.

 

“Do you think you can walk if I help you?” asked the lieutenant. Aramis shrugged, but allowed his friend to help him to his feet. He leaned on Athos, and made his way over to the bed. Once there, he collapsed on the bed next to Porthos. A few moments later, he was nestled by the big man's side. He laid one hand over his brother’s heart, while the other clung to his friend's hand. He buried his face in his neck.

 

Athos covered them with blankets. He gave orders for the sheets to be changed, then sat down with a glass of brandy.

 

His friends were sleeping peacefully. He sat listening to their even breathing.

They were alive.

They were safe.

Perhaps the world was not such a bad place after all.

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance's POV

Constance

 

She slipped into the Queen’s room in order to summon Deroux.  He seemed quite surprised when she took him into the next room. He must have been sure she would lead him to Aramis. After all, she was very worried about the marksman. The Captain had gone to check on him, and his face had been grim when he had returned. When she had ventured to ask how Aramis was doing, he had muttered “bad”...then made it clear that he would not tolerate any further questions…

 

When they entered the room, d’Artagnan was standing near the fireplace, holding the child in his arms. He looked confused, and a bit frightened. The Dauphin grasped a fistful of the Gascon's hair, and chewed on it. Constance watched them in silence.

 

_For just a moment...for just a few seconds, I was almost able to believe that he was holding our child in his arms. My sweetest dream...._

She took in a deep breath, trying to regain her composure.

 

She turned to face a confused Deroux. "Doctor, could you please check on this child?” She was sure the physician had no idea who the boy was, but he did not question her plea for assistance.  Constance  sensed that no matter how tired he was, the man had was unable to deny help to anyone who asked for it.  He clearly had a good heart.

 

He gestured for d'Artagnan to lay the child on the bed. The Gascon obeyed. His eyes met hers, and she could see a great sadness in them. She closed the distance between them, and gently touched his hand. Were his thoughts similar to hers?

 

They waited in silence, watching as the doctor examined the child. Finally, he straightened up. “Madame, I presume this little one is not your child. He needs to be fed.  His condition is such that it is very likely he will catch a cold, but I will prepare a tea in order to try ward it off."

 

“My companions should arrive with his wet nurse soon, but they first have to kill the bandits who kidnapped her," said d'Artagnan. He shifted awkwardly, then glanced at Constance. “I think that the Captain should be informed, but I don’t want to disturb…” 

 

She nodded and left, quickly making her way to the Queen’s room. She opened the door without knocking, not wanting to wake up Anne.

 

“Captain,"  she whispered.

 

Tréville glanced at her quizzically, then gestured for to sit in the chair next to him.

 

“D’Artagnan is back," she murmured.

 

He looked at her sharply. “Did he bring Porthos?”

 

She faltered.“No… was he supposed to?” 

She thought of the sadness in Gascon’s eyes. Had he been mourning Porthos!? She had been so sure that he had been grieving the fact that they could never be together...never have a child...

 

‘Yes," he replied curtly.

 

Constance hesitated, then whispered, "But he did bring the Dauphin."

 

The Captain stared at her. “Are you sure of this?"

 

“Yes. He told me that they tracked the bandits to their shelter, and found that they were holding a baby there. From the conversation he overheard, he suspected the child might be the Dauphin… so he engaged the men on guard, rescued the baby, and brought him here. His comrades stayed in order to wait for the rest of the bandits. They had gone to the local village in order to kidnap a wet nurse… I recognized the child. That’s why I came to get Deroux…”

 

“I thought you took him to see Aramis.”

 

“His condition has improved, hasn’t it?” she asked, hoping that this time she would receive an answer. Even if it was the one she dreaded.

 

“On the contrary… he heard some disturbing news about Porthos, and took a turn for the worse.”

 

“Something bad has happened to Porthos."  It was a statement rather than a question. She felt her heart in the throat.

 

“Yes. Athos and Aramis are convinced that he is dead, although we have no real proof.  D’Artagnan was sent to investigate. But instead of bringing his brother back, he has brought back the Dauphin." The Captain's smile was bitter.

 

“The Dauphin?” Anne's eyes fluttered open.  “What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice fearful.

 

“Nothing. I’ll be back in just a moment." Constance gave her a reassuring pat on the cheek, then ran into the next room. Without wasting time on an explanation, she snatched the child from Deroux and directed him to follow her.

 

“Wait here for me," she instructed d’Artagnan, then rushed back to the Queen.

 

Anne was sitting up, leaning against the cushions the Captain must have arranged for her. She looked up at Constance. Her eyes immediately went to the child her friend was holding.

 

“My son?" she choked, tears filling her eyes. 

 

“The very one." Constance smiled, and placed the infant in her arms.

 

 Anne held her son close to her chest, and her face lit up in a smile.  "But...how…?”

 

“My musketeers saved him from bandits," answered Tréville.  "I understand d’Artagnan played a major role in the operation." Constance could not hold back a smile of pride.

 

The Queen kissed the baby's downy head.  “I owe them so much. I… there are no words to express how grateful I am," she said, her voice full of emotion. “When I am more… presentable, I shall thank them personally, but I have no idea how I will be able to convey the depth of my feelings…”

 

“My men were only doing their duty," answered the Captain.

 

But Constance knew for by the light in Anne’s eyes that she thought otherwise. She suspected that the Queen would spend a great deal of time thinking of a way to thank them properly.

 

_If only you could annul my marriage...and your own as well…_

 

“Constance, please tell d’Artagnan and the others how grateful I am. And… I think you should rest now.”

 

“My Lady… Anne..." She corrected herself, using the informal manner of address after the Queen gave her a reproachful look.

 

“Please, Constance! I am in good hands. And… my son is with me," she stroked her baby's soft cheek. The child’s dark eyes were watching her intently, and his little mouth curved into a sweet smile.

 

Constance smiled, then left them. She suddenly felt very tired. She went back to her Gascon, who was sitting on the bed exactly as she had left him. He seemed overcome with fatigue.

 

She sat down next to him, and said quietly, “The Queen cannot express how thankful she is to have her son back."

 

“But I did not find Porthos...they got there before we did!" he burst out, his voice shaking with emotion. "What if they took him prisoner? What if…?” his voice trailed off.

 

She put her hand over his. “They found a place secure enough to hold the Dauphin, so they would have kept Porthos there as well if they had captured him. Maybe he was able to walk away from the site of the fight.”

 

“Do you really believe that's possible?” he asked, grief clear on his face.

 

Constance nodded. "I do."  Then she gently cupped his face and kissed him. His gave her a cursory response, then pulled away. She suppressed a sigh. How she missed seeing the desire in his eyes...the fire in those hazel orbs. They sat in silence.

 

“I have to go and check on Aramis...and tell Athos I failed," muttered d’Artagnan.

 

She nodded and stood up. She would not let him go alone. He seemed to want to say something---probably to tell her to remain behind---but he chose to remain silent.

 

“I have to leave a message in our office," murmured the Gascon. She followed him closely. He left a short report, then went to his brothers.

 

D’Artagnan stopped in front of the door, then slowly opened it. Although it was a few hours after dawn, the room was still dim. There was no candle burning, and the curtains were closed against the daylight.

 

Athos was sitting in a chair, an empty glass in his hand. He glanced at them, and Constance shuddered when she saw the pain in his eyes.

 

“Athos… I did not find him," whispered d’Artagnan. His voice was so broken. She felt an urge to touch his arm in reassuring gesture.

 

_But he saved the Dauphin! And he says nothing about it!_

“I know," replied the lieutenant calmly.

 

She could feel the Gascon’s confusion. But as he did not ask Athos to explain himself, she did. "What do you mean? How could you already know?"

 

Athos looked at her for a moment, then motioned towards the bed.

 

D’Artagnan raced over to the bed, and pulled the blankets off the occupants.

 

“Porthos?!!” he exclaimed. His voice was full of both hope and bewilderment.

 

“Yeah?...what?” the big musketeer growled. Aramis was lying over part of his body. His position was so awkward that Constance doubted he would be able to get up.

 

“You’re alive!!!”

 

“Yes...but is that any reason to wake me up out of a sound sleep?” Porthos groaned.  He sighed, then patted a place next to him on the bed. “For God's sake, just lie down here instead of screaming. Sorry there's not much room, but Aramis has sort of pinned me in place."

 

“We can put one more bed against these two," offered Athos, but d’Artagnan was already curled up next to Porthos.

 

Aramis shifted in his sleep, and Porthos gently stroked his hair. The marksman murmured a few unintelligible words, then nuzzled the big man's hand. Porthos chuckled, and the Spaniard purred like a cat in reply.

 

Constance fought the urge to burst into laughter.

 

“Athos, are we allowed to keep cats in the Palace?” inquired Porthos.

 

“That's quite a big cat you have there," answered the swordsman with a smirk.

 

“But he's really pretty scrawny. His ribs are poking me," grumbled the dark skinned musketeer.

 

“Then perhaps you should feed him more then once every week or two," commented Athos.

 

“I think that after d’Artagnan’s heroics, you will easily obtain permission from the Queen to keep your cat--and feed him well," stated Constance with a smile.

 

Athos turned to her. "What heroics?”

 

Her smile widened. She forced herself to sit down on the spare bed, although she badly wanted to curl up next to the musketeers.  She shrugged. "It was really nothing...he merely saved the Dauphin's life.”

 

“What?! How?!”

 

She told them the whole story. When she was finished, she lingered, not wanting to leave.

 

Athos tossed her a spare blanket. "You should rest."

 

“But my reputation…" 

 

Athos grinned. "Perfectly safe. You are with the King’s most trusted men."

 

“Yeah, no worries," added Porthos, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "After all, Aramis is asleep."

 

Constance chuckled, and curled up under the blanket. She was tired and sleepy, and it was lovely to finally feel secure with her…

 

_Family. These fools are my family._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riversiedewren, tkank you!


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

Aramis

 

Safety.

A steady heartbeat under his palm.

The warm body against which he was nestled.

The smell of leather and powder.

The gentle touch of a hand on his hair.

What more did he need?

 

Aramis lazily drifted towards consciousness. He was not sure if he really wanted to wake up. He surmised from Porthos’ breathing that his friend was still asleep. The marksman smiled, realizing that his brother was stroking his hair in his sleep. He wondered what part of the day it was, but did not feel like opening his eyes. He was afraid that the reality awaiting him might not be so pleasant. 

The sound of the door opening caused him to open his eyes and lift up his head. A moment later, he heard the Captain's voice.

"Don't even think about getting up!  I'm glad to see you looking better!"' Tréville gave him a warm smile, relief evident on his face.  He nodded at Porthos. "How is he?"

Aramis gently touched Porthos' face in order to check his temperature, although he had done so just minutes before. "He'll be fine. He just needs a few days of rest."

"As do you all-- but I am afraid I cannot give it to you. How do you feel?"

Aramis stared at Porthos for a moment before he replied. 

"Much better."

"So it seems. When I last saw you, you were at death's door..."

"I am sorry, sir. I just... I... just can't... without him..."  He closed his eyes.

How could he say that the only thing keeping him alive was Porthos? That the big man's zest for life was his lifeline? Without him, he would surely perish. He felt so empty--only Porthos’ energy kept him functioning. He dreaded the moment when his friend would finally become fed up with taking care of him and would start treating like the liability that he was.

"Hey, Aramis!  What's wrong?" A beloved voice reached him. 

He took in a deep breath, and opened his eyes. He gave Porthos a gentle smile. The last thing Aramis wanted to do was to cause his brother more worry.

“No, Mis. If you are actually glad to see me, I want to see a real smile! And I want to see it in your eyes! If I upset as your pillow, I beg your forgiveness."

“God… Porthos!" he hissed, exasperated.

“How do you feel, son?”asked Tréville.  Porthos seemed to be startled by his commander's presence.

With a sheepish smile, he replied, “Hungry."

Aramis felt a strange joy building in his heart. His brother was alive. His brother actually felt well enough to want to eat. The nightmare in which he had been living for the past several hours was slowly fading, leaving him excited, but also drained. It seemed strange to feel both emotions at the same time, but his brain seemed to be full of contradictions nowadays.

“I’ll send you some food. Rest while you can." Tréville smiled, then left.

A soft voice spoke.“Don't forget that you have a cat to feed, Porthos."

“Constance?!”Aramis was completely surprised.

“Yes, it's me." She looked up at him sleepily. "I thought it would be nice to have a little reunion in the ward where the injured are recovering.”

“We have a cat?” asked a confused Aramis.

“Not  _we._  Porthos," replied Athos dryly.

The medic gave his friend a curious look. “I thought you didn't like cats.” 

“Oh, I actually like this one. At least from time to time-- when it’s not too vain.”

“Ah, so now we know why it is so scrawny," murmured Athos. "You withhold its food as a punishment for vanity."

“Where is it?” The marksman leaned over the side of the bed to look underneath.

“Careful!" called out Athos. "It would be a shame if you fell out of bed and broke your neck!" 

“It’s hard to believe that our best marksman cannot see such a big cat," replied Porthos. His face was serious, but he was fighting the urge to laugh. He finally lost the battle, and began to roar with laughter, despite the pain it caused him.

“Calm down," murmured Aramis, putting a hand on his friend’s bruised chest. "You’ll hurt yourself. Besides, now I'm starting to suspect that you have brain damage."

Porthos was laughing too hard to reply. The medic knew that this was his brother’s way of dealing with the aftermath of a stressful situation.

When d’Artagnan and Constance joined Porthos, the medic glanced at them, uncertainly.

“Athos? What am I missing?” He turned to his stoic friend, and saw the hint of a smile on the swordsman's lips.

 But it was Porthos' turn to reply. He ruffled the Spaniard’s hair fondly.

“You were purring like a cat earlier," he explained.

“What?!” The marksman looked embarrassed.

“Like a really scrawny cat," added Athos.

There was a soft knock at the door. Athos opened it. The servants brought in trays of food. It all smelled delicious.

They ate in companionable silence, but Aramis saw Porthos smile every time the big musketeer looked at him.

Constance left after their meal.

 “Athos?” Aramis' voice was soft and vulnerable. He hated himself for it.

The swordsman glanced at the medic, then waited for him to speak.

“I owe you an apology for my behavior last night.”

“Yes, Aramis, you should apologize for that trying to fry your brain with a fever. A fever that somehow miraculously disappeared when Porthos arrived. Not that I am unhappy that you failed in your plan to die on me."

Aramis had a vague recollection of some things he had thought – things he might have said out loud.

“I would die for you, Athos," he whispered brokenly

Athos stared at him. “Do you think I don't know that it is often easier to die than to live?” 

“I was cruel to you, but I never meant to hurt you.”

Aramis could feel Porthos giving his hand a gentle, encouraging squeeze. He knew d’Artagnan was watching them, but he did not really care. He was too focused on the former comte's pale face.

“I know that, Aramis,  but you have no idea how hard it was to have to just sit there and watch you die from despair and grief!  I could do nothing to help you, because you would accept help from only one person--the person whom I had sent to his death.”

“What??!!” Porthos cried out.  “I may have a concussion, but I distinctly remember telling you that I was going to investigate the case. It was  _not_  your idea. In fact, you told me not to go alone. Do you think that the Captain is sending us to our deaths every time he sends us on a mission that is dangerous?"

_He did that only once--in Savoy._

Aramis shuddered, and was surprised when d’Artagnan tossed him a blanket.

“I don’t deserve your care," he said hoarsely.

“Really?" D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow. "You're being a bit dramatic. You have nursed us back to health quite a few times. I think you can accept an extra blanket."

“Aramis." Athos touched the Spaniard’s hand to refocus him. "I am sorry I couldn’t help you. I don’t blame you for how you reacted, but it was really difficult to watch… I understand why you did what you did, but I don’t know how… It was a hard night for all of us," he finished awkwardly.

Aramis wanted to thank him-- to apologize to him. But he knew that there was no way to deny the truth. Athos was not enough to keep him alive if Porthos died. He guessed how painful that was for his friend, his brother. It was terrible that he did not love his brothers equally--if indeed he was still able to love. What if his heart was already dead? A few times he had been close to death. But never had he felt as close to dying as he had in the hands of Allancourt’s men. And his physical condition had not been that bad.

A knock at the door made him lift his gaze from the bed. Still, he avoided meeting his brothers’ eyes. He wanted to reach for his pistol, but that was impossible. His hands were being held by his friends. Both men must have been aware of his emotional turmoil.

The Captain entered the room, and immediately gestured for them to remain sitting.

“Aramis, I need an honest answer. Can you be on your feet for any length of time?”

The marksman realized that he was not sure. He stood up cautiously, as he preferred not to end up sprawled on the floor in front of his commanding officer.

_How odd. I feel worthless,  but I am still so proud._

He leaned against the wall while he waited for the lightheadedness to pass. When he felt a bit better, he nodded.

“Good. Deroux needs your assistance. Etienne’s party was ambushed. All of them are wounded. Some badly.”

“Do we know anything about the Dauphin's fate?”Aramis dreaded the answer.

“Yes. Because of your brothers’ heroism, he is safe and sound here in the Palace.”

Aramis was grateful that his clenched hand was leaning against the wall.

 “One more thing. I don’t want any of my musketeers to be left alone. I was attacked on my way here.”

“Are you injured, sir?” asked Aramis with concern. His eyes were already assessing the Captain.

“Fortunately, no. The dagger had poison on it.”

“What about the man who attacked you?” asked Athos.

“Dead. He nicked himself with his own weapon during the fight. He died almost immediately.”

Aramis shivered. They had been very close to losing their commanding officer.

“I’ll wait for you outside," said the Captain. Obviously he did not want Aramis to feel embarrased if he needed help dressing.

Athos preempted any protests by bring Aramis his clothes.“Save your strength for wounded."

Aramis tried not to show how welcome the help really was. He still felt incredibly weak, and would have preferred to spend the day resting. However, there was no way he could deny treatment to an injured man. He thanked Athos. The swordsman caught his hand for a moment.

“I bear no ill will towards you, brother." His voice was low and honest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riversidewren, thank you!
> 
> I apologize for the delay in updating and I cannot promise I'll be faster.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "True Musketeers Captain's POV

“True Musketeers” Captain

 

The curtain did not entirely cover the window. It was exactly as he had ordered. He could observe the room without being seen by anyone. The candles cast a soft glow over the room, and the fire burned bright in the fireplace.

 

His heart ached as he watched the young Queen enter the room. Even though she was still pale from lingering effects of the poison, she was as beautiful as ever. He regretted that he had to kill her. However, he had no choice. He had taken over the organization whose aim was to save France from the traitorous Spanish Queen. He had no option but to sacrifice her in order to remain the unquestioned leader of his men. 

 

The former commandant of True Musketeers had been a noble man--a man who had truly believed in his fight for his homeland. He had gathered his followers from many different backgrounds. However, a sense of honor, as well as a readiness to die for France, was common to all of them. The old man must have been glad when he had decided to join the group. After all, he was the heir of a rich, noble family. Unfortunately, the True Musketeers' Captain had put too much faith in oaths. That faith had ultimately killed him. His best men were devastated, but their own deaths were now only a question of time. The secret web of contacts, the masks covering their faces, and the code system used for communication all further eased his ascent. 

 

He was their Captain now. Their commandant.  It was good that he had some military knowledge, as that had proved quite useful. However, his true value lay in his skill as a spy. He knew the whole story of Allancourt's vow to avenge his sister's death. How could such a rich man be so stupid as to waste his money like that? Why didn't he use it to achieve the King’s death? Idiot!  Allancourt was a coward, but he was a useful coward. His plan to destroy Athos was one worthy of support. The Comte de la Fère's ruin was an unanticipated, but very sweet bonus, of the plan to bring the country to its knees. After all, eliminating the best swordsman in France, who was also the second in command in Captain Tréville's musketeer regiment, was a wise move. He knew that Tréville and his men were always perceived as being difficult to manipulate. That reputation had sealed their fate. Anyone in France who was worth his attention needed to be dependent on him... or dead… or emotionally destroyed…

 

This meant that his Queen had to die. She deserved it. He had loved her once. But her feelings for him had been an illusion. His entire life at that time had been an illusion. She had betrayed him. She should have died from despair after his disappearance. They had not been stupid enough to become lovers before her wedding. That was much too risky. But she had promised to be his after her marriage. If he had been lucky, his son would have been the future ruler of France. He had met with her after his return, but they had shared only a few moments. He had patiently waited--waited for a letter, or for some other sign that he was desired. But the sign had never come. By treating him this way, sweet Anne had sentenced herself to death.

 

He could only dream that he would be able to claim her before he killed her. How he wished it would be possible…

 

The door of the room opened. Two musketeers came in, and bowed to the Queen. Ah, these two were the ones who had served as Allancourt’s playthings. He smiled under his mask.

 

The Queen spoke to them. From her gestures, he guessed that she was thanking them. He nearly growled. The younger musketeer had kidnapped the Dauphin right under the noses of his own men. It was humiliating! The boy was nothing more than a simple Gascon. If he ever got hold of young man, he would teach him a lesson about pain. Oh… he felt a delicious thrill just thinking about what that would be like.... to hear the young man scream and beg. After all, everyone had his or her breaking point. He adored discovering what that threshold was for any unlucky soul who fell into his hands. He knew his own breaking point too well. He wanted to make sure that anyone who stood in his way became acquainted with pain, despair and humiliation--just as he had been.

 

He frowned. The older musketeer had not bowed as low as he should have, but Anne gave him a radiant smile anyway.

 

_How can you look at him?!  You know what happened to him, sweet Anne. He is not even worthy to listen to your voice. Stop! Why are you giving him something? Why are you touching his hand?! Oh God-- do you actually love him? Say yes, sweet Anne, and you will watch him slowly die in utter torment. He will plead for mercy, just like a stray dog who has been beaten. Say yes, and I will take you right in front of him! Then he will truly understand what it means to be helpless…_

He was disturbed to see that Athos and Tréville were present. He had not noticed them come in. There was something odd in the former comte's behavior. Was he being friendly to the two other men? He even smiled briefly at the younger one. That was something to file away in his memory for later use. 

 

The Queen left. The musketeers were talking. It was a pity that there was no way for him to hear them. He could only hope that he could learn something by watching them. Athos ruffled the hair of the older musketeer. Another important detail. His eyes could not leave the dark-haired man's face. It was said that he was half-Spanish...

 

_Now you will be my toy…_

_I will show you what it means to be betrayed. I’ will show you what it means to truly despair. I hope that Allancourt prepared you well for me…_

_I will watch Athos stare into your open, lifeless eyes--even as your heart still beats. I will watch Athos plead for me to kill you…_

_The King is going to hunt tomorrow. Let my hunt begin also!_

He withdrew in secret. He had a long night ahead of him. Many reports were waiting for him.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riversidewren, thank you!


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos' POV

 

Athos

 

“He should be in bed! He is in no condition to be on his feet!" growled Porthos--for at least the tenth time. 

 

Athos agreed. However, it was impossible to keep Aramis from tending to the wounded, especially when his help was desperately needed.

 

“I’ll look for him in an hour or two," he replied calmly.

 

Porthos acknowledged him with a nod, but still looked unhappy. "What actually happened while I was gone?” He finally had asked the question that Athos did not want to answer.

 

“Tannard came and told us you had fallen. Aramis overheard, and his temperature spiked…” Athos closed his eyes, then reminded himself that his brother was still alive.

 

Porthos sighed.  “Athos, since when are we so ready to believe that one of us is dead?  When I fell, I was lucky to have my attacker cushion my impact with the ground. I suppose that saved my life, but still…”

 

“I don’t know why we were so quick to accept it…”  Athos voice trailed off for a instant. "But I do know that every other time you had gone missing, Aramis was always so sure you were alive--even when the odds were very much against you. I had never once seen him give up on you… but this time he just fainted. He collapsed after hearing the message. I suppose… that I thought he somehow just knew that you… were dead…”

 

“The fever was speaking for him," murmured Porthos.  His eyes landed on d’Artagnan, and lingered on him. The Gascon was sleeping, curled up against the big man's side.

 

"We haven't taken very good care of our pup, have we?” he asked softly.  "And before you speak, Athos, I did not say that because I want you to feel guilty! I just think that he needs us more than we suspected.”

 

Athos glanced at the boy. He was sleeping peacefully.  Such a sight had been rare of late. Porthos probably was right. In order to escape his nightmares, the Gascon likely needed to feel the solid presence of another human being next to him. They had learned that once the hard way--from their experience with Aramis after Savoy.

 

Athos would never admit that there were nights he would have given anything for the warmth of his brothers’ touch. He always opted instead to spend those nights with several bottles of wine. When his friends came to find him, he usually was too drunk to remember anything. He let them carry him then. Actually, at those times, he was usually not in any position to protest. He could allow himself to be carried, or he could simply spend the night lying in the gutter. It was his secret way to get the warmth and closeness he longed for, without acknowledging his need. Even to himself.

 

_Stop. Dwelling on such thoughts does no good._

“He looks comfortable now. You make an excellent pillow.” Athos spoke up in order to escape the path his thoughts were taking. Porthos smiled, then started to doze off. He badly needed some rest.

 

Athos took another bed. It was good to stretch out his body after spending a day and a night sitting on a chair. When sleep finally claimed him, he did not even realize it had even happened.

 

_Something woke him up. He lifted his head, then froze. He was kneeling on the floor near the bed. And now he was staring at the occupant of the bed, who lay deathly still. Aramis! He choked back a sob as his hand involuntarily sought Aramis’ cold fingers. The grief was suffocating. The grief and the guilt. He had been asleep when his friend had died. Once more he had failed him. He had abandoned him in his last hour..._

“Athos?” A voice reached him. A hand squeezed his arm.

 

“He’s dead… dead…” he sobbed.

 

“Athos!” This time someone shook him. “ _Nobody. Is. Dead._   _Wake up!_ ”

 

He opened his eyes, and found himself looking into d’Artagnan’s eyes. He fought to even his breathing. The boy was staring at him, and was clearly worried.

 

“I’m fine," he mumbled in response.

 

Finally, he stood up, and went to the door. He needed to see for himself once again that Aramis was alive.

 

“It is a good idea for you to go alone?” murmured d’Artagnan. 

 

Athos shrugged. 

 

The Gascon interpreted his friend's indifferent attitude to mean that he did not object to the company.

 

The lieutenant halted when they came to the room where their injured comrades were recovering. His guilt weighed on him once again.

_I was the one who sent them on that mission. I ordered them to ride to Paris--to ride directly into the ambush!_

 

He realized that d’Artagnan had knocked softly, then simply opened the door.

 

Deroux glanced up at them, then smiled faintly.

 

Six wounded musketeers.

 

Athos eyes traveled over the figures in the beds. It seemed very wrong to see such strong, vital men lying so still.

 

“How are they?” he asked the doctor.

 

Deroux sighed heavily. “Although no one has been fatally wounded, I cannot guarantee that they will recover. Blood loss, infection, the bad weather… the odds are against them. "These two--" he gestured towards Morineau and Overs, "--are in the worst condition. Your Captain left them alone, but he did not waste any time questioning the ones who are somewhat lucid.” The physician did not even try to hide the bitterness in his voice.

 

“We promise not to disturb the wounded," replied Athos soothingly. “We've just come to retrieve Aramis.” He glanced at his brother, who was busy preparing some herbal mixtures. The medic's hands shook as he stirred the ingredients.

 

“Good idea. It's time he got some rest."

 

Athos approached his brother, and spoke to him gently.  “Aramis?" 

 

“Just a minute," replied the medic absently. He was focused on the herbs. Athos had the sudden urge to just knock him senseless and carry him straight to their room. He did not like how pale the medic was. It reminded him of the time that he had been sure he had lost his friend.

 

“Athos?” Only then did Aramis seem to realize who was next to him. “What's wrong?! Has Porthos taken a turn for the worse?” His voice was full of panic.

 

The swordsman was tempted for a moment to confirm the medic's worries.  _After all, it would be the quickest way to get Aramis to leave the room._

 

“No," he finally said. "He is just worried about you. He can't sleep while you are out of his sight."

 

Aramis nodded. He needed a few moments to finish. Once he was done, he allowed Athos to help him to his feet. He swayed dangerously, but his friend held him upright.

 

As they left, Deroux called out, “I am grateful for your help, Monsieur Aramis!" 

 

Athos doubted that Aramis even heard the doctor's words. He was clearly exhausted. The walk to their room was uneventful. The lieutenant almost started to believe that the Spaniard was walking in his sleep.

 

They found Porthos was sitting on the edge of the bed.

 

“What are you doing?!” demanded d’Artagnan.

 

Porthos scowled. “Hm… take a wild guess! Maybe I wanted to get up? I'm the one who has had to lie here worrying about you lot!" he grumbled.

 

Aramis sat down heavily next to Porthos. He let Athos off his clothes and boots. He looked a bit bewildered when d’Artagnan gave him a plate of food. He was clearly too tired to eat. Athos took the plate away, deciding to give his friend a few hours of sleep before coaxing him to eat.

 

The Spaniard nestled against Porthos, then sighed with contentment.  The big man curled his arms around him protectively. A small smile appeared on the medic's face as he dozed off.

 

“He looks comfortable," murmured d’Artagnan.

 

“He should be!” huffed Porthos. "He's got me serving as his pillow again!"

 

It was already late in the evening when a soft knock at the door startled them. Athos suddenly realized that he was standing at the door, ready to strike with his dagger. Aramis' pistol was aimed at the door.

The swordsmen slowly opened the door.

 

“Put down your weapon and take this heavy tray off my hands!" ordered Constance.

 

The food smelled delicious. Athos became conscious of the fact that he was very hungry. “Sorry. Here, let me take that. How is the Queen?”

 

Constance gratefully transferred her burden to Athos, then came in and shut the door. “She feels well. Actually, she wants to thank you personally, and would like to know when would be a convenient time for her to summon you to her presence chamber."

 

Aramis was aghast. “Anytime! She is the Queen!” 

 

Constance smiled. “That is exactly why she is asking for you to name the time. She may be the Queen, but she realizes you are all still recovering.  She doesn’t want you to overexert yourselves.”

 

“Porthos?” Aramis glanced at his friend.

 

“I am ready to go whenever she wants. I promise not to faint.  However, my medic may want to keep me in bed.”

 

“Your medic does think you make a fine pillow," answered Aramis with a smile. “However, I think it would be improper for us to make the Queen wait. Besides, it won’t hurt you to get up.”

 

Athos held his breath. He could not believe it. When the Spaniard had smiled at Porthos, the lieutenant had seen a bit of light dancing in his friend's eyes. Something which reminded him of the old Aramis--the Aramis that had existed before Allancourt had appeared in their lives. Athos glanced at Porthos, and realized that the big man was overcome with emotion. He had apparently seen the same thing.

 

“Whatever you want," whispered Porthos.

 

“Hmm… are you sure you have enough money to declare such things? " teased Aramis.

 

Meanwhile, Constance had been busy setting the table. She finally looked up at them with a smile. “So, messieurs! The dinner-- or rather the supper--is served!”

 

They did not need a further invitation.

 

“I don’t think this is a meal meant for the servants," observed Porthos.

 

“It isn’t. The Queen likes you. The same food was served to the nobles today.”

 

“So...we should be on guard for poison," muttered Aramis.

 

Athos had to squeeze his friend's hand once more. He needed to feel the warmth of the medic's body, and to feel the steady pulse under his fingers.

 

“I am alive, Athos. I am here," murmured Aramis gently.

 

“You’d better be!” growled Porthos.

 

“Says the person who took a tumble from a rock!" retorted Aramis.

 

“But I had a soft landing!” 

 

“May it never be otherwise," murmured the medic. “Never."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Riversidewren.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

Aramis  
  
The heavy rains were a true salvation for the musketeers. During those days, Aramis found to his surprise that the rivulets of water on the window made him smile with relief. They meant another day that he could spend simply resting. He did not like to admit how weak he was. He knew that his behavior worried his brothers, who expected him try to escape from bed at the earliest possible moment. But this time, he preferred to stay nestled against Porthos. Obviously, he was also helping Deroux care for the injured musketeers, whose wounds were slowly healing. He guessed that his comrades rejoiced that they did not have to accompany the King on his hunts.   
  
Athos and d'Artagnan tried to lead the investigation, but Tréville was adamant about refusing them permission to leave the Palace.  
  
"He doesn't like it when his men look like drowned rats," explained Porthos, amused by d'Artagnan's pouting.

"But we have obtained some information about a spot that is really worth checking!" argued the Gascon.

"Do you want to ride there, or simply swim?" inquired Athos with a grin.  
  
"We're going with you," declared Porthos. Aramis smiled, but rolled his eyes. To be honest, his big friend was in better condition than he was. Porthos was still sore from all his bruises, but he could easily stay awake the whole day. Such a feat was not so easy for the medic.  
  
"Fine. So you'll go with me. The Queen wants to see us in an hour."

"In an hour?! You're kidding me! I am not at all presentable!" protested the marksman. He knew that his brothers wanted him to tease them. Aramis tried to play along, anticipating what they would expect him to say. He did not want to worry them. He remembered the delight in Porthos' eyes when the big man had seen his joyful smile.  
  
But there was more. Aramis missed having joy in his life. He longed for the invigorating feeling which used to fill his heart so easily. He tried to accept that this was lost for him, along with the bliss of lying in a woman's arms, but... while the idea of intimate relations scared him, the idea of happiness was still tempting.  
  
There were moments during their banter when he felt really well. He  knew Porthos recognized those moments....and he cherished them.  
  
"You're spending too much time thinking." Porthos plunged the comb into his hair.  
  
Aramis closed his eyes, and slightly tilted his head. He really should not ask for so much attention. It would end badly, but he could not resist the temptation.  
  
"You are a real cat," murmured Porthos, continuing to comb his friend's hair. Aramis purred, then let himself be carried away by his friend's laugh.  
  
"Children!" muttered Athos. 

"I heard that," murmured Aramis.

"I intended you to," replied the swordsman with a warm smile.  
  
Finally they were ready, and left the room together. It felt good to be heading somewhere together. It gave them the illusion that things were back to normal.  
  
They met up with Constance, and she led them to one of the more official rooms. The Queen was conversing with Tréville when they entered. Aramis caught a glimpse of her when he bowed.  
  
She was still too pale, but otherwise she looked fine. He remembered that he gone to bid her farewell as he was dying. He must have been dreaming the whole thing.  
  
"I would like to express my deepest gratitude to your men, Captain. They saved me once again...and proved their unwavering loyalty."

"D'Artagnan...you saved my son. Please... take this token of my gratitude."

The Gascon approached her and knelt. She extended her hand, and gave him a gold pendant. 

"Let the Holy Mother protect you from evil," she whispered. "You are one of the most devoted protectors of my son."  
  
D'Artagnan kissed her hand, then withdrew. He was obviously shocked and embarrassed.  
  
"Aramis... my champion and protector..."  
  
The marksman knelt in front of Anne. He felt overwhelmed.   
  
"You nearly died in order to save me."

"I was only doing my duty, Your Majesty."

"Then please accept my gratitude for performing your duty with such distinction." She handed him a parchment, and he looked at her quizzically. 

She gave him a gentle smile."You may read it."  
  
He unwound the parchment, then stared at it as if he could not really understand what he was reading.

She had granted him access to every apothecary in France. This could mean the gift of life for his brothers. No noble could refuse him help when he had this document in hand. Refusal would be an act equivalent to disobeying the Crown...  
  
"I asked your Captain what I could do for you.  He gave me a few ideas, but unfortunately it was impossible to grant most of them at this time... so... this was one of the simplest."

"Your Majesty... this gift is so thoughtful.... I cannot even begin to express my gratitude."

"You have earned it."

"I am merely your humble servant." He bowed.  
  
A gift of life.   
He held it in his hands.   
The trust she placed in him was overwhelming.  
  
"Dinner is about to be served... I would be honored if you would dine with me...if it would not be too tiring for you, that is."  There was real concern in her voice.  
  
They accepted her invitation. It felt quite strange eating with her at the table, rather than simply being on guard during dinner.  
  
Athos and Tréville led the conversation. It was unusual to hear so many words from the usually silent lieutenant.  
  
Anne very much enjoyed the conversation about poetry. Aramis was shocked to hear his friend citing the great masters with the same ease with which he wielded a sword.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Ostara / Spring Equinox to everyone!
> 
> This chapter is quite short because first I thought to post it with another but finally I’ve decided otherwise.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part two. So once more Aramis' POV

Aramis

The following day, they were finally back on their horses. They planned to check into the lead d'Artagnan had mentioned. Most of the other Musketeers had to take part in the King's hunt. The lucky ones who got to ride with the Inseparables were Tannard, Noiret and Philippe.  
  
They set off for the distant location that Athos had overheard mentioned in a strange conversation conducted by persons unknown.

Athos had easily found the place on the map. There was a small monastery, which had been abandoned after a plague epidemic nearly a hundred years ago. The building had long since crumbled, but was likely still used as a shelter by poachers.  
  
Clouds were still covering the sky in a thick layer. The air was humid, and the dampness seemed to penetrate the men's leathers.  
  
Aramis missed the warmth of their room. They would probably arrive at their destination by nightfall. If they found the old building empty, they could spend the night there.  If not, they would assess the situation, but would most likely end up spending the night in the damp forest on the hard, cold ground. 

_Now that's something to look forward to_ , he thought darkly.  
  
The marksman was already very tired. Due to the condition of the muddy roads, they had to ride at a snail's pace.  
  
The road started to climb, and they knew that meant they were approaching the monastery. Darkness cloaked their surroundings.  
  
"Athos, first let me check to see if the building is guarded," murmured Aramis.  
  
"I'll go with you," responded the lieutenant. 

Porthos' expression showed his frustration. He did not want to lose sight of his brother for even an instant, but he knew that traveling stealthily over rough terrain was not his forte.  
  
Athos and Aramis cautiously approached the abandoned monastery on foot. The forest was silent. The mud under their feet muffled the sound of any sticks breaking, but also it made their path very slippery.

The building seemed empty. There was no light coming from the interior, and there was no smell of food. There were some tracks around the place, but they seemed old. It was hard to tell for sure with the mud.  
  
"If someone is inside, there are no more than one or two," whispered Aramis. Athos nodded, agreeing with his assessment.  
  
They retreated to their comrades.

Athos ordered Tannard, Noiret and Philippe to wait for their signal. Normally he would have left them at a convenient vantage point, but the night was too dark to see well.  
  
The others cautiously entered the monastery. The building was in ruins. Athos gestured to Porthos and d'Artagnan to check the west wing, which seemed to be in worse condition.  
  
Aramis could not shake off a feeling of apprehension. Athos acknowledged his uneasiness, and also felt edgy. But so far, they had found no sign of a human presence. Aramis lit two torches. It would be foolhardy to proceed without any light. They could easily injure themselves by stumbling on the uneven ground.

They waited for any reaction from their surroundings, but the building remained quiet. The two musketeers advanced forward slowly.

"Is anyone here?" shouted Athos. Any hope of making a stealthy approach had vanished with the flame of the torches.

Silence.  
Dust.  
Darkness.  
  
When a deafening shot rang out, Aramis reflexively fired in the direction of the shooter. A scream let him know that his aim had been true.  
  
He cast a glance at Athos, and his heart sank. His leader was lying on the ground, a hand clutched to his side.  
  
An instant later, all hell broke loose.

The explosions were deafening. Aramis lunged to cover Athos with his body. Stones were falling around them like an avalanche. Aramis felt them relentlessly assault his body. Then suddenly, the earth gave in under them. It was the last thing Aramis remembered...  
  
"Athos!!" he whispered. He could feel blood under his fingers.   
"Athos!!" His fingers searched desperately for a pulse.

"Aramis?" A weak voice reached him. 

 "Where are you hit?" Aramis hissed.

Athos managed to take hold of Aramis' hand, and placed it on his wound.

When Aramis applied pressure to the area, the lieutenant winced, then coughed.  
  
"Hush..." the medic murmured.

"Didn't know...was a trap." 

Aramis did not like the how breathless his friend's voice sounded.

The medic's hands searched for the exit wound. He found it, and realized that there had been significant damage done. He could feel a broken rib under his fingers.

Athos hissed in pain, then launched into another coughing fit.  
  
Aramis struggled to bandage his wounds, and could do nothing to alleviate his pain.

"I'm a dead man... get out of here, Mis!"

Aramis did not reply. Dread filled his heart as he struggled to light his torch. Finally, he succeeded. He nearly dropped the torch when he saw the crimson stain on Athos ' lips.

"I'm a goner, Mis..."

"Athos..."   _Not this way_.  His friend would drown in his own blood...

"Save yourself!" Athos pleaded, gasping for breath.

Aramis looked around. They were in an old cave. He could see the way out above them, but knew that there was no way a seriously injured Athos could navigate the terrain. The route would be challenging even for a healthy man, especially if he lacked Aramis' skill at climbing.

It would be impossible for a dying man.

_No! Athos is not dying!_

Aramis angrily fought back his tears.

_Focus!_

"Listen to me, Athos! I am not a coward. Leaving you is not an option...not now, not ever! Save your strength, because your fight is not over by any means." He secured the torch, then reached for his medical kit.

Athos watched him. He clearly wanted to say something, but the medic glared at him.

"You'll be fine," said Aramis evenly. "Our brothers will find us. Right now, I have to stitch you up. And if you try to tell me you're a lost cause, you might as well keep your mouth shut...because I do not intend to lose you, brother."

He would have been more convincing if his voice had not been trembling.

 


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos' POV

Athos  
  
Pain.

He bit down harder on the leather strap that Aramis put between his teeth, but a desperate moan still came from his lips. He was burning up with pain. The fire was consuming his chest.  
  
 _Why is Aramis making me suffer so much... when my fate has already been sealed?_

He tried in vain to withdraw from the pain. He choked, and started a desperate fight for air, even though he sensed that it would be easier to let go. However, his body had different ideas.

 

He heard Aramis’ voice. His friend was pleading with him. He recognized the tone, but did not understand the words.  
  
 _Why is Aramis wasting his time?! I have no realistic chance to survive. If he leaves me now, he can escape from this place_. Athos recalled that he had seen a way out when he had looked up earlier.  
  
Another spike of pain drew a guttural cry from him. He felt some liquid trickle into his mouth, and started to choke on it. He felt Aramis' soothing touch on his face.  
  
 A plea.  
 A prayer.  
 His name.  
  
 _This is how it ends...  
 Forgiv_ _e me, brother...save yourself…_  
  
 Darkness finally claimed him, numbing the pain.  
  
But the relief did not seem absolute. He was dead. 

 

_So why do I still feel pain?  
Why does death hurt so much? _

_How is it possible?_  
  
"So, you are still here. You had your chance, Aramis of the King's Musketeers, the favorite champion of our traitorous little Queen. So why didn't you try to escape?" The voice seemed familiar to Athos.  It was a voice from his past, but he could not identify the speaker. He did not want to betray the fact that he had regained consciousness, so he kept his eyes shut.

 

_Is it possible I am still alive? Or is this simply hell? After all, I deserve it._  
  
"I won't leave him," replied Aramis, his voice low and dangerous. 

  
"You won't? Then what are you willing to do for him?"  
  
Athos' heart stopped. He was sure that his sudden inability to breathe had nothing to do with his injuries.  
  
 _They will destroy Aramis!! And I will have killed another brother..._ _No!.. Please, no…_ _  
Maybe this is hell after all..._

_It must be..._

_But what is Aramis doing in hell?_

_Did he reject God, then fall_ _like a rebellious angel?!!_

_Because he did not want to leave his brother?_  
  
"I know what you price you were willing to pay for your young friend, the Gascon. However, I regret to inform you that I am not interested in men--nor are my soldiers. I have been promised the right sort of person to deal with you, but the weather must have delayed him."

  
Athos could not let his brother be hurt again.

He still remembered....  
He remembered every image.  
Every sound.  
Every comment.  
No matter how hard he tried to forget.  
Would he be forced to witness his brother's torment once again?!

  
"So you planned the whole thing..." Aramis' voice was matter-of-fact.

  
"Yes. And it worked quite well. Don't worry, we took care of your brothers. They're already dead. I just needed to take you two alive."

  
"Apparently your man was a bad shot."

  
"I said it _almost_ worked perfectly _._  And for now, Athos is still alive. My offer to you is simple. Give me a list of every item you will need to tend his wounds properly, and I will make sure you get them. What's the catch, you ask? Well, each item will cost you five lashes. As I am a fair man, I will allow you to tend to him before you pay the price. But mark my words, after paying it, you will have no strength left to even think about escaping."  
  
 "I need my medical kit, hot water, and some wine," muttered Aramis.  
  
 "Mis.... no..."  Athos could not remain silent any longer.

  
 "I'll be fine." The medic's voice was devoid of any emotion. Lifeless.  
  
 Athos shuddered, then suddenly felt as if his chest was being consumed by fire.  
  
When he could finally speak, he pleaded, "Aramis...please...don't do it!"  
  
"You have many items in your kit," drawled the voice. Then it began to count. Athos felt sick.  
  
  _Aramis might even die_...  
  
"No!" he choked.

  
"I am not talking to you!" sneered the voice. "I am speaking with your friend here, who has just made a deal with me."  
  
Athos focused his gaze on their captor, who was wearing a mask. He was sure that he knew him. But he couldn't link the voice with a name.  
  
 _Who are you?_  

 

He wanted to ask, but a fit of coughing, and the resulting pain, stole his voice. He slumped over. Aramis propped him back up against the wall, then draped his cloak around him. He was sure that his brother had done a similar thing earlier.  
  
He seized Aramis' hand, and held it in a vise-like grip. He pleaded with his friend to leave him be. To not sacrifice himself. But Aramis was determined.  
  
"Athos... I have to check your wounds. Here the light is better, and I have water. I really hope I don't need to remove my stitches...although I regret to say that they are quite below my usual standard of care..."  
  
 Aramis' murmuring was soothing. Athos knew that the medic was concentrating solely on his injuries, blocking out the thought of what was yet to come.   
  
This time, the pain was not so crippling. Athos managed to endure it with his usual stoicism.  
  
 "Are you done yet?" their captor asked, his voice bored.

  
 "One more thing..."  
  
 Athos felt a cup touch his lips.

  
 "Drink.... it will help you with the pain," Aramis whispered.  
  
 _Of course... Aramis had made immediate use of the Queen's gift, and had taken everythin_ _g he might need from the p_ _alace apothecary._  
  
 Athos could even discern the smell of tea tree oil on his wounds. Their medic rarely had access to such an expensive, rare substance.  
  
 _A_ _nd_ _now he was wasting it on him..._  
  
 The pain finally lessened a bit. Aramis squeezed his hand, then left him.  
  
"On your knees!" commanded their captor.  
  
Aramis obeyed. 

 

The man motioned to one of his soldiers. "Give him the poison!"

  
A man approached the prisoner with a cup. Judging from the look of disgust on the medic's face, the liquid smelled horrible.  Then Aramis' face went white.

  
"Drink it!" ordered the leader. "Don't worry, it won't kill you. Allancourt's herbalist is quite skilled. It will just make the pain much more intense."  
  
"That was not part of our deal!"

  
"Fine. I'll give it to Athos instead."

  
"Don't you dare! I'll drink it!"  
  
"Aramis..." whispered Athos helplessly. The marksman turned, and gave him his trademark cocky grin. But his eyes were so empty…  
  
The medic drank from the cup, then fixed his eyes on Athos. He took off his doublet and shirt when he was ordered to do so. His wrists were bound, then attached to a hook in the wall.  
  
"Seventy lashes! When he loses consciousness, revive him with the salt water. Aramis, if you decide you want your torment to end, simply ask my man to put Athos in your place. Do you understand?"  
  
 "Never!" growled Aramis.  
  
 An oath.  
  
 When the whip cut through the air, Athos closed his eyes. The lash hit Aramis' skin with a sickening sound. Then there was another one. And another.  
  
 By the tenth, his friend let out a groan.  
 By the twentieth, he screamed, then managed to bite his lips.  
  
Athos could scarcely bear it, but he knew he could not show any reaction. He refused to give their captors any more satisfaction. But he could not fight back the silent tears.   
  
Suddenly, Aramis went silent. Athos opened his eyes to see his friend's limp body hanging from the hook in the wall. Then the salt water hit his wounds. He regained consciousness with a sharp cry, which then became muffled. He struggled against his bonds, but in vain.  
  
 "Are you ready for Athos to take your place?"

  
 "Never!" Aramis' voice was hoarse, and barely audible now.  
  
 "Continue!" ordered their tormentor.  
  
 Athos lost count of the lashes. Aramis' screams pierced his very soul.  
  
Four times more Aramis had to be roused with salt water. Each time, it took less lashes to render him unconscious once again.  
  
Athos was not aware when it finally ended.

The crumpled form of his shivering brother lay on the floor near him.

A towel was tossed over him.  
  
"Aramis?" Athos whispered painfully.  
 His brother whimpered. Athos gently touched his hand. The marksman hissed in pain, and curled up in a ball. The towel fell from his back, showing the horrible lacerations.  
  
"Aramis..."

His brother was sobbing. What could he say? How could he calm him?  
He could think of no platitude to offer.  
  
"Aramis, please look at me! I beg you...." He changed his position in order to get closer to the marksman. A wave of pain hit him. He winced, biting his lips hard enough to draw blood.  
  
 "Athos...?" Aramis was near him, and was cupping his face, "Don't move." Tears were still running freely down his face, and blood was dripping from his lips.

  
"Aramis...", he whispered. His brother took a clean part of a discarded towel, soaked it in water, and gently wiped from his face the sweat, blood and... tears? Athos was not sure.  
  
 "Do you want a sleeping draught?" asked the medic in a low voice.  
  
 Athos shook his head slightly. He needed to stay conscious.  
  
 Aramis closed his eyes, clearly steeling himself to move. Then he picked up the waterskin, and knelt next to Athos.  
  
 "Drink. It will help you."  
 "The pain reliever? You need it..."  
 "Won't mix well...with that... poison."  
  
 Athos sighed. His medical knowledge was too limited to know whether the medic was telling the truth, or once again sacrificing himself for one of his brothers.  
  
He wanted to stay awake, but even without a sleeping draught, he finally succumbed to sleep.  
  
When he slowly regained consciousness, he felt something cool on his face. He was still propped up against the wall. Each breath hurt, and seemed to supply far too little air.  
  
 He opened his eyes, vaguely surprised at how this simple action exhausted him.  
  
"Hush... don't talk. You've got a fever, but the wounds do not seem to be infected."  
  
Aramis was awfully pale. His hands were shaking badly. Athos began to wonder if the medic also had a fever.  
  
"Just let them take me..." he whispered.

  
"I said no talking! Athos... you're conscious! Do you know what that means?  No, wait, don't answer me. But I think… you are wrong. The wound is not fatal."

 

He was not so sure. He felt really awful. Normally, he would like to believe Aramis. However.... even if the wound was not fatal, his chance of surviving was very, very slim. And so was Aramis'...

 

"I'll save you brother... I will find a way... I swear... and now drink... it's water..."

 

He obeyed.

 

_Don't make promises you cannot keep, brother..._

 

Athos started to doze off. 

  
"Sleep. You need rest."

 

_And what do you need, my brother? I saw your back... you need a doctor... you need to be patched up... you need to rest..._

He extended his hand. He felt Aramis fingers tangle with his.

 

"I am here, brother..."

 

_No.... you're not... you're hiding under a medic's mask. You were here yesterday. Was it yesterday? You were here when you were sobbing... now you're so far, far away..._

The door opened, and woke him from his slumber. Aramis placed himself between Athos and their captor.

 

"Ah, I am glad you are lucid. I need you to write a confession. You are going to confess that you committed adultery with Queen Anne, and that the child called the Dauphin is your bastard."

 

"Aramis, I order you not to obey this traitor!" Athos rasped. Although his voice was barely audible, his intent was easily read.

 

"It's a lie!" whispered Aramis.

  
"Maybe. But I am not interested in the truth. I am merely interested in your confession. And I intend to get it."

 

"Never!"

  
"You're quite tiresome, aren't you?"

  
"I won't betray my King!"

  
"You will save him. His wife spies for Spain! She'll destroy France! Is that what you want, Aramis? Well... perhaps I am too bold when I say that I want to destroy the Queen _and_ the Musketeers with one confession. You can put whatever name pleases you in your confession. Does that sound better?"

  
"This is a betrayal of France!"

  
"Ah,  Aramis... I tried to be kind. Now I'm going to have to do things the hard way. How many lashes do you think Athos can survive? Do you fancy a wager?"

  
"Don't you dare..."

  
"It is your choice, Aramis. Here is the paper--and the ink."

  
Aramis bowed his head.

 

"Remember the oaths we gave, Aramis!" Athos tried to cry out, but his voice was not much louder than a hoarse whisper.

 

He was pulled to his feet. The pain was searing. He bit his lips.

 

Aramis turned to face him. His eyes were dead, and his face ashen. "You will kill him!" he cried desperately.

  
"Yes. Finally. And it will be your fault. Your foolish decision sentenced him to death. But it's not too late to change your mind..."

 

"Aramis! Remember my order! You _have_ to follow orders..." whispered Athos, suddenly afraid what of what mad act Aramis might commit to save him.

 

"Yes... my lieutenant..." The marksman’s voice broke.

 

_He won't survive my death....Not like this… Not accused of it… It will kill him... Porthos.... where are you?? You must save him..._

He nearly cried in out in pain when he was bound. The pain from his wound was merciless.

  
The song of cut air.  
The blinding pain when the whip cut through his wound.   
He screamed...

 

_God… if you exist, save Aramis…_


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

Aramis

 

The confession.

The death sentence for Anne.

The death sentence for Athos.

His choice.

The choice he could not make.

No!

The choice he had made by refusing to sign the confession.

 

_Athos…_

 

It had been a cleverly designed trap, right from the beginning. They had been meant to overhear the conversation, then to go to the monastery. The floor had been meant to collapse after the explosion. How stupid he had been to think that he had regained consciousness immediately after explosion! He should have realized that he was not under the rubble at the monastery, but somewhere else. But since he had his weapon still on him, it never occurred to him to suspect anything like this… Furthermore, he was too focused on Athos and his injuries.

 

_Athos…_

The song of a whip cutting the air.

A scream of pain.

 

Aramis moved on instinct. A guard tried to intercept him. The medic managed to elude him, then to attack their leader. He knew that his only chance was to kill this man. He was shoved away--away from Athos, away from the place he was being kept near the door. The pain nearly overwhelmed him, but it was quickly forgotten when he saw a discarded rapier on the floor. Probably the guard had tossed it to the side when he had been busy dealing with them.

 

There was no time to think. The masked man was upon him. The musketeer stabbed him with his blade. The man gasped, then clutched his side. Aramis had to leave him in order to focus on his second opponent, who was trying to slice at him with a knife. 

 

Athos’ scream did not distract him. Instead, it made him faster. He dodged a blade as he leaped to his brother's defense. Their captor lifted the whip for another lash. He never found its mark. as the musketeer slammed into his body. With the force of the impact, they landed hard on the floor. Now the Spaniard was in no position to use his sword with the natural skill he possessed.

 

His back was on fire. He tried to wriggle away from his enemy, but was too weak. Desperately, he hit the man in the face with the pommel of the rapier. The man cursed, then answered with a hard punch to Aramis' face.

 

The medic felt darkness closing in on him. His free hand searched desperately for anything sharp that he could use to defend himself. This was his only chance to save Athos, and he was determined not to give up without a fight. Suddenly, his fingers were cut by something sharp. it felt like a piece of metal or a shard of glass. He seized it. With all the force he could muster, he sliced his opponent’s throat with his small, but deadly, weapon.

 

The man screamed, then recoiled. Aramis immediately rolled onto his feet, and launched a further attack. He knew that a punch would likely be avoided or deflected, but he also knew that his enemy would not suspect a kick aimed directly at his knee. His opponent screamed in pain as his leg buckled under him. It was then that Aramis threw a punch. The man ducked in order to avoid it. However, a second later, his head connected with the musketeer’s boot. The remaining guard tried to raise the alarm, but a blow from the pommel of the rapier silenced him.

 

Aramis stood still for a few moments, panting heavily. The pain was searing. Every move seemed to heighten the agony. Aramis took in a breath as deeply as he dared, then turned his focus to Athos. He blocked out everything else--even the pain. Obviously, it was still there, and was sapping his strength, but it could not sway his resolve to get Athos to safety.

 

He untied his brother, steadying him as he swayed. He had Athos lean against the wall while he gathered the weapons and his medical kit. The lieutenant’s eyes were following him, but were already unfocused. There was not much time. The medic scrambled back to his friend. Athos held out his hand, silently waiting for the familiar weight of a weapon. Aramis gave him the loaded pistol. He motioned towards the doors, then put his arm around Athos. In this way, he was able to support most of his friend's weight. After deliberating for a moment, he took a torch, knowing that it would almost impossible for them to navigate without it.

 

“Leave me," groaned the swordsman.

 

The medic suddenly could not think of anything to say, so he merely let out a low growl, then started to hobble to the door. Athos tried his best to avoid leaning too heavily on his friend. When they finally exited the room, Aramis locked the door behind them with a key taken from one of the guards. Now they were in a tunnel. The walls and floors were made of stone. He realized with detachment that it must have been built a few centuries ago. He started to walk towards the fresh air. The exit was disguised with a cover of dry branches and leaves, which were easily moved away.

 

It was already dark, and there was a light rain. However, Aramis was able to make out a river below them. It was likely the Seine. He decided to go down to the bank of the river. They did not have much time, and it would be easier to walk along it. . Athos was doing his best, but he was clearly fading. The medic was not really sure how long he would be able to keep going. He also was not sure how long it would take their captors to realize they had escaped.

 

They finally reached the water, painfully stumbling several times on the way. The medic tried to figure out which direction they should go. However, before he had made a decision, he caught sight of a dilapidated boat. He limped over to it, and helped Athos inside. Then he pushed the boat into deeper water, and jumped in. There were oars in the boat, but he used them only to navigate. He knew he did not have the strength to fight against the current.

 

His brother leaned back in the boat, his face grey. His lips were pursed, and he was gasping for air. Aramis felt his heart shattering as he watched, but he only had one thought. _Save Athos._

 

He extinguished the torch, and quickly lost any sense of distance or time. When he smelled smoke from a chimney, he started to navigate towards the shore, hoping to find help. Finally, the boat hit sand,  and came to a stop. Aramis hauled Athos onto his feet. He ignored the warm blood trickling down his own back. He nearly screamed when the pain, like a vicious animal rudely awoken from its slumber, renewed its relentless attack.

 

_Athos. Focus!_

They started the grueling walk towards the village. It was seemed to be farther away then Aramis had thought. _Or maybe there was no smoke--only hallucinations and desires?_

 

“Need... rest," begged Athos. The marksman found a good place for them to stop. He positioned Athos against a rock, then went back to cover their tracks. When Aramis returned, he realized that the swordsman was shivering. He gave him all the clothes he could spare, and was left only with his braies.  He examined his brother’s injuries, then sutured the open wounds inflicted by whip. Despite the needle, Athos did not stir. The medic realized that there was nothing more he could do for his friend at this point

 

Aramis was sitting near Athos, battling his own fatigue, when he heard it. Horses! And approaching footsteps...

 

_Athos wlll not be hurt again!_

 

He attacked. His opponent eluded his thrust, and forced him into a defensive positon. The man was yelling something at Aramis, but the Spaniard’s mind could not comprehend what was being said. Then his face collided with something hard. He growled in pain and frustration, and struck back. His blade entered his enemy's body an instant later. His brain did not recognize the fist coming at him until it was to late. Darkness engulfed him. His mind was screaming at him that something was terribly wrong.

 

_Save Athos._

_I have failed him._

_God, please save him…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter!


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan POV

D'Artagnan

 

He could feel someone's hands on him. He knew they were not friendly hands. He gathered his strength, then spent a moment assessing his condition.  
  
_What for? It doesn't really matter. I won't be caught alive._  
  
He attacked, pleased that his body obeyed him with only a bit of protest. When his knife hit his target, he opened his eyes. The man was kneeling near him. He had a mask on his face, and that was everything d'Artagnan needed to know.   
  
He dodged a blade on pure reflex, then threw himself on the ground in order to seize his rapier. Before his opponent could strike again, the Gascon was on his feet. His stance was far from ideal, but his fury was without mercy. He deflected his opponent's sword, then launched a counterattack. The man eluded him, then stumbled on the uneven ground. This gave the musketeer an opportunity for a more efficient attack. D'Artagnan slashed at him with a wide swing of his sword, then immediately had to catch another blade that was aiming at him. He remembered the lesson Athos had taught him. With a deft flick of his wrist, he disarmed his opponent. The man immediately renewed his attack with his main gauche, but the Gascon knew exactly how to neutralize him with the longer blade.  
  
A shot rang out, and d'Artagnan turned around to see a man fall. He was not surprised to find out that the shooter was Philippe. He acknowledged his brother's presence with a salute. The two other musketeers joined them, their arms at the ready.  
  
The Gascon shouted out his friends' names. When the only answer was silence, a sense of dread came over him.   
  
They started a frenzied search of the ruins. After a few minutes, d'Artagnan heard a groan. He gingerly approached the area, trying to control his impatience. After all, he could not be sure if it was friend or foe lying under the stones. Finally, the flickering light of the torch revealed a familiar pair of boots.  
  
"Porthos!" he cried, and dropped to his knees. He started to dig frantically. Philippe joined him in his efforts. The big man let out another groan, and tried to move. The stones covering his body shifted slightly.  
  
"Give us a minute, Porthos! Don't move!" pleaded the Gascon. 

 

His friend obeyed, but d'Artagnan could almost feel the frustration radiating from him. Eventually, they managed to clear enough space for Porthos to move a bit. As the musketeer slowly lifted himself to a kneeling position, small avalanches of stone slid off his body.   
  
"How are you?" asked the boy nervously. Porthos stretched his muscles, testing his body.

  
"Fine. Nothing seems to be broken. What happened?!"

  
"It was a trap," muttered d'Artagnan.

  
"Where's Athos and Aramis?" Porthos asked, steeling himself for the answer. 

 

D'Artagnan felt as if his brother's eyes were piercing his very soul. "Noiret and Tannard are searching for them. They have not yet given any signal that our assistance is needed."   _We did not give any signal when we found you... So that really means nothing...or everything._

  
Porthos stood up cautiously. "So, we should search for them," he said matter-of-factly.  
  
D'Artagnan watched him for a moment, trying to assess his condition. It was obvious that Porthos was in pain, but it was also clear that he was able to move.  
  
A new day was coming, and their search so far had given them no clues. The monastery now seemed like it had grown enormous overnight.  No trace of their friends could be found. The musketeers gathered around a few large blocks of stone lying on the ground. There was no way that anybody who was pinned under them was still alive.  
  
D'Artagnan refused to believe that their brothers were buried under them. He examined the stones closely, afraid that he would discover blood. But what he saw gave him relief. It was obvious that these blocks had been lying here for years. There was nothing to suggest otherwise. He finally felt as if he could breathe again.   
  
"These stones were here long before the explosion," he explained, feeling his companions' anxious gazes on him.

  
"So where are they?!!" asked Tannard.

  
"They have probably been taken captive..." Philippe said the words that d'Artagnan did not want to hear. Not about his brothers!   
  
He looked around him, desperately searching for any clue. He caught sight of the hole in the floor once again. They had already peered in once, and had seen that there was no one below. But this time, d'Artagnan decided to jump down in order examine the area more closely. Porthos tossed him the torch.  
  
There was some blood on the ground. There were faint traces in the dirt that indicated that something had been pulled towards one of the walls. It made no sense. D'Artagnan inspected the wall more closely. Suddenly, he understood! The wall was a fake. It was made from a flimsy layer of stones, but was not meant to be solid. He kicked against it with fury. It gave way, showing a tunnel behind it.  
  
"I've found something! Come down!" he cried out excitedly. But then fear for his brothers nearly engulfed him...  
  
They had been taken prisoner. One or both of them were wounded...

_They will be abused in every possible way... they will be destroyed..._  
  
His heart was beating wildly. He was gasping for breath when he felt a hand on his arm.

  
"We'll find them. We'll find them in time," whispered Porthos.   
  
They followed the tunnel, which quickly led them to an exit. There were traces of a camp there. Noiret went back for their horses, while d'Artagnan tried to pick up the trail. The enemy had been quite clever at camouflaging their tracks.  The Gascon started to walk in circles, desperately searching for any clue that might lead him to his brothers.   
  
His search seemed to be fruitless, so he returned to his companions. There were only three paths which led away from the area, so they divided up in order to check them more efficiently. It was not an ideal plan, as it meant that one of them - Tannard - would be alone. However, they had no choice. There was no time to waste.   
  
D'Artagnan was growing more and more frustrated with every passing minute. The path he followed with Porthos came to an end at a little river. The Gascon was sure that their enemies had used the river to cover their trail--if they had indeed chosen this path. He and Porthos started to explore along the bank in opposite directions. It was already getting dark when finally he saw tracks. He fired his gun at once, then impatiently waited for others to join him.  
  
They were finally on the trail of their enemies--so they hoped. It did not take them long to reach another tunnel. It was impossible for them to hide their approach, as they needed the torches to see. It looked as if they were in another part of the old monastery. Athos had mentioned something about tunnels running under the ruins. Such features usually were kept secret.   
  
After some time, they found a cellar -- or a cell. The door was thick, but it was not locked. The room behind them was empty, except for a small pile of weapons in the middle of it. Two rapiers, a few daggers, four pistols...  
  
D'Artagnan gasped as he recognized the weapons. He heard Porthos curse. The big man dropped to his knees in order to collect their brothers' belongings.   
  
The musketeers checked the other two cells. One was empty, except for a bit of food, and in the other...  
  
D'Artagnan stopped at the threshold, and stared with horror at the blood on the floor and on the walls. Then he noticed a discarded whip...  
  
_It couldn't be..._  
  
"The took them." whispered a shattered Porthos.

  
D'Artagnan nodded numbly, and set off down the tunnel. Once he was outside, he saw multiple sets of tracks. He searched until he found the traces of two people heading towards the river. Were these their brothers' footprints? He was not sure, but they led to a place on the river where a boat had been tied up. They decided to split up once again. He and Porthos walked along the river, while their comrades followed the tracks of the horsemen.   
  
After some time, they found the discarded boat. There were a few scattered footprints, but the trail had obviously been covered quite well. However, they were able to get a general sense of the direction in which their comrades had gone. They headed slowly along the bank. Porthos called out their friends' names. Silence was the only answer that he received.  
  
A few moments later, they were able to discern two dark shapes curled up under a rock. They left their horses behind, and slowly approached.  
  
One of the dark shapes launched forward, a rapier held fast in his hand.  
  
Porthos reflexively dodged the blade wielded by Aramis. His friend was half-naked, and was covered in blood. There was both fury and despair in his eyes.   
  
"Aramis, stop! It's me, Porthos! You're safe now!" he yelled.  
  
But Aramis was too far gone. Porthos had no choice but to punch his comrade. Usually such a blow would have rendered the medic unconscious. But this time, it did not work. The shock of that failure cost Porthos dearly. He felt Aramis' blade entering his side. There was no time to waste. He struck him once more, and Aramis went limp. He caught his friend's body in his arms.  
  
Only now could d'Artagnan reach his mentor. He stopped when he saw how pale his leader's face was. He nervously searched for a pulse. When he found it, he could not restrain himself from placing a gentle kiss on his mentor's forehead.  
  
"How is he?" asked Porthos.

  
"Alive--and he's been patched up. I won't touch the bandage now. "

  
"Good. We need to get to the palace as soon as possible," declared Porthos.

  
"We can use the boat. Nuit will follow us." D'Artagnan suddenly recalled that Porthos had been wounded moments before, and glanced around. "Here's Aramis' medical kit. I'll sew up your wound. You've got to be able to move, because I really can't manage three unconscious men by myself," murmured d'Artagnan. 

  
"Let's get to the boat first."  
  
They wrapped their precious burdens in their cloaks, and carried them to the boat. There the boy did his best to sew up the wound, then rinsed it with wine. Porthos looked at him darkly, but thanked him.  
  
The big man started to paddle the boat. Their horses followed them along the shore. d'Artagnan from time to time whistled to Nuit. But he did really need to worry about the horses, so he focused all his attention on his brothers. He found himself praying that all the blood on Aramis' braies had come from the wounds on his back. He was nearly sick when he thought about what might have happened to his brother.  
  
"Don't think," muttered Porthos. "You turn green when you do."  
  
D'Artagnan tried to smile, but he failed miserably.  
  
Porthos put aside the oar for a moment, and extended his hand to stroke Aramis' damp hair. The unconscious marksman flinched away from him. D'Artagnan saw his friend pale in despair.  
  
"No... Aramis..." Porthos whispered brokenly. "Don't be afraid of me!"

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riversidewren, thank you.
> 
> I have the impression I should not leave a good cover…


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' POV

Porthos

  
They finally saw the lights of Thomery, but decided against continuing into the village. There might be too many enemies watching for them. Porthos headed for the shore, and they waited a moment for their faithful horses to catch up to them. The big man bit his lip, thinking hard about whom he should take with him on his horse.   
  
His heart told him that it should be Aramis. However, Porthos also knew that he was stronger than d'Artagnan. It was only right that he should take the one who was more seriously injured. The only hint he had as far as the injured men's condition was that Aramis was still able to fight. His fierce attempts to defend Athos spoke volumes.  
  
"Mount up!" he called to d'Artagnan. The boy obeyed. Porthos took Aramis gently in his arms. His heart ached when the marksman flinched.   
  
"Mis, please," he murmured. "You're safe! It's Porthos... please, Mis!"  He continued to whisper soothingly as he positioned Aramis before the Gascon.   
  
Then he returned for Athos. 

  
He called out his friend's name, and gently patted his cheek. He was rewarded by a soft moan.

  
"Athos... I need to take you with me on my horse. I'll be as gentle as I can, but I am afraid it will hurt."  
  
"Mis?" groaned the swordsman.

  
"He's...safe."  When Porthos recalled how his beloved friend had sought to evade his touch, he almost choked on the word.  
  
There was an unspoken question in Athos' dull blue eyes. The big man gently adjusted his hold on his friend, and carried him over to the horses. The lieutenant did not protest. 

 

_That is a really bad sign_.  

 

However, when he placed the swordsman on the horse, Athos instinctively grasped the horse's mane.  

 

Porthos swung up behind him, then put his arms around his friend. "Lean on me, Athos. You're safe."

  
After a few moments, Athos relaxed against him. He probably had lost consciousness again. 

 

_Perhaps it's better for him this way.._.  
  
They rode as fast as they dared, and finally reached the palace.  
  
Maurice, who was on guard duty, called out to them, "Tréville is waiting for you!" A moment later, the musketeer realized who the injured men were.  

  
"How bad is it?" he asked fearfully.

  
"They are still alive, but they need Deroux's help," muttered d'Artagnan.  They rode on in haste.

  
Porthos was grateful that Maurice had had the good sense to immediately send someone to fetch the doctor.   
  
They left their horses in the care of the stable boys, and took their precious burdens into the palace. Porthos watched anxiously as d'Artagnan supported Aramis, stumbling a few times along the way.

They finally reached their room where Deroux and Constance were waiting for them. Porthos nodded his thanks. He was not sure if it was a good idea for a woman to see his tortured brothers, but he decided against trying to convince Constance to leave. Deep down, he knew he had no chance of succeeding.  
  
"What happened to them?" asked the doctor.

  
"We don't know all the details," muttered an embarrassed Porthos.  
  
The servants brought large quantities of water, wine, and food to the room.  
  
Deroux started to unwind Athos' bandages. Meanwhile, Constance began to wash Aramis' back with a clean rag. Porthos felt incredibly helpless as he stood by, watching the others take care of his brother  
  
Athos moaned as Deroux checked his wound. Porthos had not anticipated that Aramis would react so violently to that sound. His brother, who had seemed almost unconscious, shoved Constance away, and tried to lunge towards Athos. 

 

The dark skinned musketeer caught him just in time. Porthos' desperate words had absolutely no effect, and the medic struggled against him. The bright brown eyes were full of fury and despair, and showed no sign of recognition. Aramis continued to fight against his friend, and even managed to give Porthos a savage kick. The big man was too scared for his friend's health to let this go on any longer. He finally shoved Aramis onto the bed and held him down with the weight of his body. Finally, the man passed out. His back had begun to bleed again.  
  
When Aramis went limp, Porthos suddenly hated himself. He had heard tales about Aramis going into protective mode when he was hurt, but he had never witnessed it himself. Athos had once told him that Aramis needed time to recover from such a state. But he had never clarified exactly how long it would take, or how Aramis should be dealt with. Athos definitely avoided the topic as much as possible.  
  
D'Artagnan had never seen Aramis like this either. Tréville was their last hope. 

 

Porthos decided to go brief the Captain. He excused himself, and stepped out of the room. An instant later, he ran into his commanding officer.  
  
"May we talk inside?" murmured Treville.  

 

"Deroux is there, but I don't think we have anything to say that he shouldn't hear."

 

They entered the room, and Porthos gave his commander all the details of the mission.   
  
Tréville only nodded, his face grim. Then he turned to Deroux. "How are they?"

  
"I am not sure of the extent of Athos' wound, but I really don't want to disturb the stitches just to examine it better. One rib is broken--because of the bullet, I suppose. I don't think there is any liquid building up around his lung, so... although the wound is serious... barring any infection... he has a chance..."

  
"And Aramis?"  
  
Porthos glanced at his brother, who was still being stitched up by Constance. He could barely stand the horrible sight of his brother's back. But there was something he dreaded much more. And judging from his brother's reaction...  
  
"He is not sedated enough to be examined. From what Constance says, I can assume that he has no internal injuries. He has lost a lot of blood, though, and it will be very hard to keep infection at bay... we may yet lose him. I don't think his actions are due to brain damage..."  
  
"I think he is in protective mode, Captain," sighed Porthos. He suddenly felt very tired. He was not even aware that he was swaying until he felt Tréville’s arm supporting him.

  
"Are you wounded?" asked the Captain quietly.

  
"Yes, he is!" called out d'Artagnan.  
  
Porthos chose to remain silent, but he allowed Deroux to check on him. It was only than that he realized that his stitches had come undone.  The wound was bleeding heavily.  
  
"How did this happen?" asked Tréville.

  
"It was Aramis. He was instinctively defending Athos."  
  
"Are you sure we should keep Aramis in the same room with Athos?"

  
"And what do you propose instead, sir? That we lock him up in another room?! That we restrain him? How can we even think of doing anything that might harm him further?!"

 

Porthos was furious now, and close to tears. "He is terrified of me! When... we found him... in Epi-sur-Esonne, he sought my touch. He trusted me. Now, he's afraid of me... in a way that he has never been. I had to hit him twice...once when we found them--and just now, when he tried to get to Athos.  He was desperate to get to him, because he thought we were hurting him. And I... I used my strength against him..."

 

"You did what you needed to do." 

 

The Captain's reassuring hand on his arm was meant to comfort him, but Porthos shook it away. He was silent for a moment, then whispered, "Do you think you can reach him, sir?"

  
"I can try, but has always been your role. You have always been the one he protected so fiercely, the one who has always been able to talk some sense into him."

  
"It seems as if things are looking up, eh?" Porthos gave his commander a bitter smile.  
  
They waited as Constance finished tending to Aramis' back. He recoiled from anyone else's touch. Porthos covered him with a fresh sheet and a blanket. 

 

Aramis curled up in a ball on the farthest corner of the bed. He showed no reaction to the Captain's voice.

  
"His position...it's hurting him," whispered Constance, her eyes tearing up.

  
"What are we supposed to do?!" Porthos punched the wall in frustration.

  
"Are you aiming to ruin my needlework already, son?" asked Deroux, his voice mild.

 

Porthos sighed, and sat down.   
  
Tréville left, and motioned to the physician to follow him. Constance stayed behind.

  
"Why are you still here?" murmured Porthos.

  
"I think you need an extra pair of hands. I can look after them while you are eating and sleeping. And just so you know, I don't take no for an answer. You need to rest--because they need you."

  
"He doesn't need me." Porthos was close to tears. "Look at him… he is afraid of me!"

  
"He doesn't know who you are. You have to give him time, Porthos."

  
"Why? So I can watch a fever kill him?!"

  
"Porthos! If you want to believe that one of my patients is a lost cause, you can leave right now!"

  
He stared at her, confused. "Your patients?"

 

She gave him an angry glare. "What else are you supposed to call the people you sew up and take care of when they are injured?" she asked, still furious.

  
"Do you think you can help him?"

  
"Yes. I do! This is no joke, Porthos. And if you want to sleep here, rather than in the hall, you'd better believe it too."

  
She looked so fierce... so beautiful. At that moment, he truly understood why Aramis loved violence in women.

 


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos' POV

Athos

_Although the hot blood was trickling down his legs, he did not feel the pain. The whip had finally ended its song of cut air and cut skin. He heard the scratching of pen on paper, and it made him turn his head._

_Aramis was signing the confession. His hand was shaking badly._

_Athos growled. The marksman lifted his head._

_“I am a traitor, Athos. Curse my name."  His voice was barely above a whisper. There was no color left in his face, and no light in his eyes._

_Athos bowed his head, acknowledging defeat._

_“Yes, you are a traitor. So now that you have confessed your guilt, it is time for you to end your miserable existence.” Their captor gestured towards his guards, who pointed their guns at Athos' chest. The masked leader then casually tossed a dagger over to Aramis. It landed at his feet._

_“If you try anything stupid, Athos dies.”_

_Aramis did not reply. He picked up the knife. For a moment, Athos had a desperate hope that his brother would attack their captor. It was obvious they were doomed, but they could still take their enemy with them. That hope died away when he realized that there was no fire left in the Spaniard. Aramis simply had no will to fight. He was completely broken._

_“Aramis, fight!” hissed Athos._

_His friend did not even look at him. Instead, he carefully positioned the point of the blade between his ribs, and braced himself for the pain. Then he applied steady pressure on the pommel._

_A moment later, the medic crumpled and hit the floor. Athos saw his face, and felt sick. A pair of open, sightless eyes met his. The lieutenant suddenly realized that there was no real change in the brown orbs that he had seen minutes earlier.  His brother’s dead eyes had looked just as empty moments ago, when Aramis’ heart had still been beating._

_A pool of blood silently formed on the already bloody ground._

_Athos screamed._

There were hands on him. Someone held him down. He knew those hands. He opened his eyes, then closed them immediately. He could not stand to meet Porthos' gaze. The big man's dark eyes were bright with unshed tears.

 

He had been the cause of his beloved friend’s death.

 

_God--if only I had been killed at the site… then Aramis might still be alive, and the Queen would not be in such terrible danger._

 

_God… Aramis betrayed_ _France_ _…_

_He betrayed his country, his King, his love… to save me…_

_I am not worthy…_

_I have never been  worthy…_

_I only bring death to those whom I love…_

_I lost Thomas… I lost Anne… I lost my child…_

_I lost Aramis…_

_Now I’ll lose Porthos… because he won't be able to stand my presence once he knows… and I won’t hide the truth from him…_

“Drink, Athos.” Gentle hands lifted him up.

A cup at his lips.

A voice full of concern.

He did not deserve it, but he obeyed the voice. 

The draught. It tasted awful, as Aramis’ draughts always did.

 

_Aramis!_

 

He choked.

He could not breathe.

 

He had killed his brother. Again.

 

The darkness was luring him even closer.

 

“Athos!” A desperate cry.

 

_Don’t call for me, Porthos!  You won't want to know me anymore…_

The parchment.

The confession.

The danger to the state.

 

_Tréville must know_!

 

To his deep regret, Athos had to fight the darkness, which promised him blessed oblivion.

 

“Fetch the Captain…” he croaked.

 

Porthos left.  Athos lay with his eyes closed. He could tell that there were other people in the room.

 

The door opened.

“Athos?” He heard his Captain's voice. “Athos, are you with us?”

He opened his eyes in response to his commander.

 

“It’s good to see you awake, son.”

 

_Why he is so kind to me?_

_Because he does not know what really happened._

He knew he must find a way to explain the whole situation in as few words as possible. This was necessary because he was so tired… but also because he knew that he would have to face an enraged Porthos the moment the big man learned of his involvement in Aramis’ death.

 

“Athos, you should rest…” The voice was gentle, full of concern.

 

He hated their concern. 

He was unworthy of it.

He had failed.

He had failed as a soldier.

He had failed as a brother.

He had failed as a friend.

 

“He passed out some time ago." 

 

_Constance_ _…What is she doing here?_

“He… doesn’t really give in to sleep. He is… conscious as long as his body allows it… and then… he is not aware of where he is or whom he is with. The only thing he reacts to is Athos’ pain… We couldn't get him to drink anything… Captain… How long will it last? How long will he last?” There was fear and sadness in Porthos’ voice.

 

_He must be talking about d’Artagnan._

_The boy must have been severely wounded in the explosion._

 

The gunshot.

The explosion.

Aramis had tended to his wound.

Aramis had been whipped for it.

His brother’s tears.

His brother’s despair.

 

The whip cutting Athos’ flesh.

Aramis’ wild fight.

 

_I pleaded with him to leave me… And he did not listen… again…_

“Athos, son?” A hand on his cheek.

He opened his eyes.

 

“Captain? Did you find a parchment on me?”, he asked hoarsely.

“No. The only parchment we found was the one from the Queen in Aramis’ medical kit. Athos, what’s wrong?”

 

Aramis…

His brother…

The one he had failed.

 

“Did you find his body?” Athos rasped. Probably the confession had been left in Aramis’ cold hand…

 

“Whose body?” Tréville's voice was tense.

 

“Aramis’…” whispered Athos, closing his eyes. 

The weight on his chest was more than he could bear.

 

“Athos!” Tréville's voice was nearly a shout.

 

_Oh God! They didn't find the body!  And they had hoped that that Aramis was still alive. No...he's angry. Now he understands that the fault is all mine…_

“Athos!” A rough hand gently slapped his cheek. 

“Look at me!”

 

He opened his eyes reluctantly.

 

His Captain had every right to be furious with him. Athos knew he deserved it, but he would have preferred not to have experienced it. 

 

“Aramis is alive, Athos! Do you hear me? He is alive!”

 

_Alive… How?_

Athos wanted to ask so many questions, but realized that his grip on consciousness was fading.

He desperately needed to ask one question.

Just one…

 

“How is Aramis?” he whispered.

 

“Not himself," replied Porthos. The big man's voice was full of pain. “He doesn’t recognize us… he… is afraid of me…”

 

The guilt was searing.

He had taken Porthos' beloved brother away from him.

The Aramis they knew was gone.

 

He allowed the darkness to surround him once more.

 

_“Leave me!” he ordered._

_Aramis... stubborn, loyal Aramis... shook his head. Determination was clear in his eyes._

_Athos wanted to scream... to beat him... to force him to leave... but the searing pain did not allow him to move._

_A sick feeling came over him.  He knew what was going to happen now._

_NO!!_

_Masked men abusing Aramis in front of him._

_The soulless brown eyes…_

_The stream of blood flowing away, taking Aramis' life along with it._

_With Aramis’ silent consent._

_With his relief._

_Despair._

_The sad smile, full of resignation._

_The silent farewell…_

_“No!!!! Aramis!!!!”_

Pain.

He tried to catch his breath, but it only made him cough.

He realized that someone was holding him in more of an upright position.

 

“No! Lie down!” A voice growled with fury.

_Porthos?_

 

“Leave him! Allow him to get to Athos.” A more gentle voice. 

_Constance_ _?_

 

Athos suddenly felt a warm presence at his side. He leaned into it, although he had no real choice in the matter, as the hands which held him upright withdrew. He could feel fingers gently stroking his hair. It was a familiar touch.

His eyes opened, only to gaze into a pair of brown orbs, watching him intently.

 

“Aramis…” he rasped.

 

His friend was deathly pale. His eyes were simultaneously bright with the fever and dark with despair.

 

Aramis went motionless. Like a wild animal that had been cornered.

 

“Brother…” Athos whispered.

 

_Was it true?_

_Was Aramis really alive?_

 

Porthos moved a little closer. In response, a watchful Aramis immediately encircled Athos with his arms. His eyes were focused solely on Porthos. On possible danger.

 

Athos could feel the tension in the medic's muscles.

 

_Aramis is in protective mode...but I am not Porthos…_

_Why is he protecting me? I don’t deserve it…_

“Athos, if there is any way you can reach him…” Constance’s voice was sad and soft.

 

“He doesn’t eat. He doesn't drink. He… only responds to your pain, Athos…” Porthos’ words were full of anger...and fear.

 

 

Athos closed his eyes. He hoped that Aramis was really alive. He couldn't stand to wake up, only to find out that it had been a dream...to find Aramis’ cold body. He knew that he should do something. 

 

_Talk to Aramis?_  

He was too tired.

“I need to lie down," he muttered.

 

To his surprise, he was gently lowered onto the pillows. Knowing the state of Aramis' damaged back, Athos realized that it must have caused the marksman considerable pain. He seized Aramis' hand, afraid that his brother would disappear. He needed to feel the warmth of his body... the steady pulse under his fingers.

 

Aramis seemed to know what Athos needed, and nestled against him. The swordsman started to relax. His body needed sleep, even if his mind sought to avoid it.

 

_A scream of pain._

_A cry of despair._

_Helpless fury._

_He was not sure who was screaming. Was it him? Or his brother?_

_“Ah, a suitable person has finally arrived! Now you can have some fun, musketeer."_

_No! Athos could not watch!_

 

_He desperately closed his eyes, but then felt as if he was abandoning Aramis in his last hours. He was leaving his brother to suffer alone, just like Marsac had at_ _Savoy_ _._

 

_So he opened his eyes, and forced himself to watch…and he felt his soul dying along with the marksman’s._

A soothing touch on his hair...on his face.

He desperately clutched the hand that touched his face. 

It was warm. 

Very warm. 

He opened his eyes to see Aramis watching him.

 

They were in the palace.

They were safe.

His brother was alive.

 

Athos started to drift into sleep. He was comforted by that awareness, although he knew that he should have done something else…

 

The medic nestled against him.

 

“Are you comfortable?”, Constance asked worriedly.

Athos glanced up at her. “Yes. And he needs the closeness right now.”

 

It was not entirely the truth.

Athos needed it also. Desperately.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brenwan, thank you for the idea.
> 
>  

 

Aramis

 

Darkness.

Pain.

He had failed.

 

A scream reached him. He launched his body forward.

 

_Save him!_

_Shield him from pain!_

_Save him…_

Someone caught him. He fought wildly.

He would not be kept away from his suffering brother.

Still, he could not reach him.

He hated the person who had stopped him.

He struggled against him.

He struggled against the darkness.

He tried so hard!

 

And yet he failed once again.

 

Another aborted attempt to get to his brother.

Another lost fight.

 

And another one…

 

He did not remember his name. 

He did not even remember the name of his brother.

There was only the overwhelming urge to save him.

 

The images--the sounds--were flowing through his brain, but he was not able to process them. They were merely meaningless, colorful noise.

Noise full of blood… of the metallic clinking of shackles…

The whip welts on his brother’s skin…

His brother’s blood on his hands…

These things were the only images he could focus on…

 

The pain was a different matter – it was his constant companion. Angry, fiery. It was consuming his body. Deep down, Aramis knew that soon nothing would be left of him. However, he did not care. There was something much more important to do.

 

_Save him!_

_Focus!_

This time, he managed to get to his brother.

Even though someone was screaming at him.

 

The man whom he had fought against was now holding his injured comrade. The medic was suddenly not sure if that person meant to harm his brother. However, he could not take any chances. He tore his brother from the other man's arms, and held him protectively. He braced himself for punches or kicks. None came.

 

He was so tired. His brother was a little too cold for his liking. But maybe it was a good sign…

 

“Aramis?!”

A sound.

A name.

It sounded vaguely familiar.

 

The voice. The voice of his brother.

 

Aramis tried to focus his eyes on him. There was something terribly wrong. His heart screamed at him, but he did not know how to respond. He stared at his brother’s pale features. He knew he should say something, but he seemed to have lost the ability to speak. He caught a movement in the corner of his eye, and tried to place himself between his brother and this new threat. It was a difficult task, as the injured man clearly was not able to sit upright by himself.

 

The enemy did not try to come any closer. His brother whispered something. Aramis did not so much understand his words as simply guess the meaning. He gently lowered his comrade onto the bed. He could feel his own consciousness fading. He tried so hard not to succumb to. But there was a reassuring coolness to his brother’s skin. The medic somehow knew that he did not need to worry about it. He instinctively placed his hand on the man's chest in order to feel his breathing.

 

_Maybe it is over…_

_Maybe we are safe…_

Those thoughts made him relax a bit.

 

A moan woke him. He scanned the room quickly, but there was no one close enough to hurt his brother.

A muffled scream told him everything he needed to know. A nightmare.

He gently stroked his brother's hair. His fingers caressed his forehead. He was rewarded with a hazy look from a pair of blue eyes. He felt the other man grasp his hand. 

 

Athos…

His brother’s name was Athos.

 

Aramis nestled against him, mindful of the swordsman’s injuries. He could feel the other man clinging to him desperately, but was too tired to try to understand why. 

 

“Aramis…?” it sounded like Athos. He opened his eyes, but found a woman near him. He felt that he should know her name. _But is it really so important?_

 

“Aramis, please drink the draught Constance is trying to give you! You are very ill…”  Athos' voice was a hoarse whisper.

 

He shook his head.

_Athos needs that cure, not me… can’t you see that, mademoiselle?!_

 

Someone in the room growled. There were words hidden in the fury, but Aramis could not make them out. The marksman curled up into a ball, nearly crying out when the agonizing pain hit his back.

 

The woman said something, her tone soothing.

 

“No! I won’t watch him die just because he is being stubborn! If he refuses to drink the draught, I’ll force it into him! He hates me anyway!” The speaker left the room, slamming the door on the way out.

 

“Aramis… please..." whispered Athos.

 

The marksman was in too much pain to move.

 

_He needs me. I must answer his call._

 

He bit down on his lip so hard that he tasted blood. The medic slowly changed his position so that he could see Athos. He was trembling now, his vision darkening at the edges.

 

“Aramis! Please, let Constance help you. I need you alive and… you won't stay that way if you refuse her help…”

 

_Constance_. Now he remembered her. 

He knew she could be trusted. D’Artagnan’s sweetheart.

_D’Artagnan?!_

He saw the boy hovering near the bed, but he appeared to be afraid to come any closer.

But Porthos?

_Where was Porthos?!_

 

Then he remembered the fury,

The anger.

 

His brother hated him.

He choked back a sob.

 

_Athos is safe, and Porthos cannot stand to be in my presence… Time to leave…_

Constance was speaking to him. He heard her voice, but he did not understand the words. He really had no interest in doing so.

 

If he had not slept with the Queen, Athos would not have been tortured… 

He understood Porthos' anger. 

Porthos was always so protective towards his brothers… towards Athos.

Towards Aramis.

 

_And now I have to live with the knowledge that he hates me… I cannot…_

He hid his face in Athos' arm, careful not to wake him. Athos’ injuries were his fault. If he had not betrayed the Crown, there would have been no True Musketeers. It was a conspiracy that had been created in order to kill the traitorous Queen. Due to his sins, Anne’s life was now forfeit.

 

He was close to crying himself to sleep when he heard the door open. He stilled.

 

“I came to get my things. I should move to another room… it will be easier that way… Has he drank anything?” Porthos' voice seemed to pierce Aramis’ soul. He so desperately needed his forgiveness.

 

_How I want to hear affection in his voice once again....and to feel the warmth of his touch…Everything is lost now. He hates me....and he has good reason to._

“No…” Constance answered softly.

 

“If he doesn’t drink… I will force him…”

The voice sounded so broken.

 

_He is in pain because of my treason. I hurt_   _him._

After a few minutes, Porthos left. Aramis felt his soul shattering into a million pieces of glass. Each so sharp. Each piercing his soul. Each causing a little piece of him to die. The pain was unbearable. He tried to muffle his screams. He was shaking.

 

“Aramis?” 

A hand on his arm.

“Please, wake up, brother…”

D’Artagnan worried voice reached him.

 

_I wish this was just an awful nightmare…_

He moved slightly, hoping to calm the boy.

 

“Open your eyes--please! We are worried about you, Aramis!”

 

He slowly lifted his eyelids, and his eyes met d’Artagnan’s.

 

“It took us much too long to find you… I am so sorry," whispered the Gascon.

 

Aramis gently squeezed his hand. He cast a longing glance towards his personal items.

 

“Do you need something?”

 

He nodded, and gestured as if he were writing.  He could see fear in the Gascon’s eyes, but the boy obediently brought him what he needed, then helped him to sit up.

 

_Brother… No, I am not worthy to call you brother…_

_Still, in my tainted heart, you are my brother…_

_I understand why you are so upset with me. I would beg your forgiveness, but I know I don't deserve it._

_I want to thank you for everything you have done for me. So often you were my lifeline…_

_I beg your forgiveness for all my mistakes and… crimes_

_The place you gave me in your heart has been dearer to me than my own life._

_I am so sorry for disappointing you._

_Please take care of Athos and d’Artagnan… and please forget you ever knew me._

_Farewell, my dearest friend._

_May God be with you._

_Aramis._

 

He was not pleased with the letter, but he could feel his lucidity beginning to fade. He folded the paper, wrote  _Porthos_  on the top, and gave it to d’Artagnan.

 

The boy smiled.

 

_Why is he smiling? He must somehow know that I have made the right decision._

D’Artagnan left. Aramis tried to get up. His body protested, but he knew that his legs weren’t broken. He still had the ability to walk. He picked up his weapon and left the room quietly. And then it hit him that there was no way he going to be able to reach the stables. He had to find an empty room, rest there, and wait to feel a little better… if he was meant to feel better… but he doubted it.

 

“ARAMIS!” a shout reached him. He hoped Porthos was far away. He could tell that his brother-- _he's not your brother anymore_ \--was beyond furious. He felt a spike of fear when the big man charged down the corridor, only to stop in front of him. Anger practically radiated from his body.

 

 Aramis bowed his head. He had hoped to avoid this conversation. He was not ready to face the pain of hearing the accusations against him--all of which were true. He was not ready to say good bye to his beloved friend.

 

His breath came in short gasps. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get enough air into his lungs. The corridor was spinning around him. He swayed for a moment, then let himself be engulfed by the darkness that had been waiting for him. 


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' POV

Porthos

 

He closed the door of the room.  He felt as if he had been placed in a prison cell--or exiled. His beloved brother was struggling in the next room, and he could do nothing to help him. But it was worse than that – his very presence harmed his brother. In his mind, he relived all the moments in the past that he had spent struggling with Aramis. To be honest, this was not the first time he had needed to use his strength in order to restrain his brother. A few times, he had to seize him--or even knock him out-- in order to prevent his friend from getting killed. The marksman had been furious at times, and offended more than once.  In some instances he had merely forgiven Porthos, but never had he been afraid of him.

_Am I in exile? Or did I take the coward's route and escape? I left him, because I could not stand to feel helpless… I could not stand just watching him die…God! Maybe Constance or Athos managed to make him to drink the draught before… before it is too late._

 Porthos choked at that thought. He hoped that Aramis had regained his senses, and that it might be possible to talk to him... He sat on the bed and hid his face in the hands, fighting the tears which threatened to gather in his eyes.  
  
 Aramis searching for the warmth of his body after they had found him in Savoy, his eyes devoid of any hope...  
 Aramis with his reckless grin, his eyes dancing...  
 Aramis lying on the ground, his blood forming a pool around him…  
 Aramis’ eyes full of tears…  
  
_Brother, please, come back to me…_

  
 A knock on the door startled him from his thoughts. He wanted to ignore it, but remembered the condition of his friends. He opened the door, and paled when he saw d’Artagnan. The boy gave him a slight smile.  
  
 “Aramis asked me to give this to you." He held out a folded paper in his hand. "I hope it means that he is more lucid, and actually knows who you are.” 

 Porthos unfolded the letter, then froze. He read the first line, then saw the last, and his world fell apart. He bolted out, slamming the heavy door behind him. Some fragments of the wall fell to the floor. A sculpture of an ancient goddess lost her finger. He registered those facts with the precision he knew from battle.  
  
He saw Aramis not far away from him.  He launched himself towards the marksman, then halted in front of him.  
  
 This stupid idiot thought he hated him!  
 This stupid idiot wanted to leave him!  
 This stupid idiot…  
  
    
  
_What is he doing out of bed?  
 Ah… he is fainting._  
  
 He caught his brother, and took him in his arms. Aramis' head lolled to the side, but his body was still trembling.  
  
_Trust a fevered Aramis to jump to conclusions_ …

The medic was an expert at feeling guilty and unworthy. Only Athos could compete with him.

  
 “Shall I fetch the doctor?" asked, d’Artagnan, his eyes fixed on Aramis’ pale face.  
  
 Porthos considered this for a moment. His brother was in bad shape, but did he need expert medical help at this very moment? Or did he just need some time to regain consciousness, and to be able to comprehend what was going on?

 

The marksman needed to understand that the dark skinned musketeer had never planned to abandon him. Right now, Porthos hated the very thought of placing Aramis in anyone else's hands...even a doctor's.   
  
 “Not yet," he murmured.  
  
 The Gascon opened the door for him, and they entered the room. Athos was sleeping. D’Artagnan declared that he was going to go to check on Constance. She had left some time ago to get them some food, but must have somehow been detained. Porthos was grateful to the boy for leaving them alone. He lay Aramis on his side, being careful not to put any pressure on his friend's back. He could feel the blood seeping through his own bandage.  
  
_Great… another set of stitches damaged… Aramis knew just how to strike someone in order to cause a wound which would impair movement…_  
  
 Porthos would have shrugged if the action would not have been too painful. He had split open his own stitches, not for the first time.  
 And certainly not for the last.  
  
 He sighed, and gently stroked Aramis’ hair. Heat radiated from the Spaniard, and Porthos fought a rising wave of panic.  
  
 “I am not going to lose you! Do you hear me?”  
  
 Aramis moaned, and moved slightly. Porthos lightly patted his cheek.  
  
 “Aramis… please, brother…” He trailed off, searching for the right words. “Open your eyes, please!"  
  
The medic groaned in pain, and lifted his eyelids. Brown slits cast a glance towards Porthos as the Spaniard gasped for air.  
  
 “Breathe… in and out...slowly," coached the dark skinned musketeer.  
  
 Aramis clung onto him, his hand grasping his friend's shirt.  Porthos felt grateful. It seemed as if his brother was finally acting like himself--very distressed, but himself.  
  
 “Can you hear me?” Porthos asked.  
  
 The medic nodded.  
  
 “Good… so… you stupid idiot..I am not leaving you! I wanted to sleep in the other room in order not to damage your recovery. You were afraid of me! You couldn’t stand my touch, and… it was too much for me! I was afraid that you hated me!”

Aramis lifted his head, staring at him intently.

 

"Look.... I am not as dramatic as you.. and I'm definitely less talented with poetic language...but know this... I do not intend to even try to imagine my world without you! Do I make myself clear? You stupid idiot, you stole my heart a long time ago with your sincere smile and care... when I first came to the garrison, I had abandoned the only home  I had ever known...I had left Flea and Charon, who were like family to me... and you were the first person who treated me equally... who gave me the hope that I  could find a new home... so... this wouldn't be home anymore without you." Porthos choked on the last words.

 

He looked into the brown orbs that were fixed on his face. He was not sure if it was his eyes, or the medic's, that were foggy with tears. He smiled, a lump in his throat.

 

"So are we good?" asked Porthos. He did not like Aramis' silence, but he knew that his brother needed time. He remembered that it had been like this in the days after Savoy. He knew that Aramis understood what he was saying. The marksman caught his hand, and kissed it before Porthos even realized what his friend intended to do. His eyes were full of gratitude. The dark skinned musketeer gathered him into his arms, and hid his face in Aramis' hair.

 

After a while, he shifted his position in order to reach for cup standing on the table near the bed.

"Mis, I need you to drink this awful draught. It will help with your fever."

The marksman looked confused, but dutifully drank the liquid. Porthos smiled with relief. He gently stroked his friend's hair, his gesture full of affection. Aramis relaxed in his arms. Porthos felt as if the fear that had turned his heart into a block of ice had finally started to dissipate.

 

Suddenly Aramis stiffened, and Porthos' heart stopped.

 

_Is it not over?? How long is he meant to suffer??!!_

 

Aramis hastily withdrew from his arms, and extended his hand, which was covered in blood.

Porthos felt the horrible weight of guilt settle on him. He must have injured his friend further...

 

But Aramis seized his shirt, and opened it. He looked with trepidation at the bloody bandages on Porthos' chest.

The dark skinned musketeer was relieved.

 

_I did not harm him. It's just my blood..._

 

D'Artagnan chose this moment to enter the room with a huge tray of food. He froze when he saw the blood.

  
"D'Artagnan, you'll have to stitch me up a bit," Porthos murmured sheepishly.

The Gascon placed the tray on the table, and reached for the medical kit. He placed it near his friend on the bed, and shook his head in exasperation.

Aramis reached for the kit.   
"I'll take care of him," said d'Artagnan.

  
Aramis shook his head fervently.

  
Porthos sighed. He waited as the Gascon handed the needle and thread to their medic. He closed his eyes when Aramis started to work on him. It hurt, but he felt only relief... his friend was acting as he normally would. This strange mix of relief and pain started to lull him to sleep. He groaned when the brandy stung his wound.

  
As an answer, Aramis touched his cheek in a soothing way. Porthos opened his eyes, and looked into brown orbs full of concern. He fought desperately against the choking feeling in his chest and throat. He had been so close to believing that he had lost his brother. 

  
Aramis shivered, and squeezed Porthos' palm. Then he nestled against him, never losing his hold on him. Porthos bit his lip when he heard medic wince in pain several times before he finally settled himself into a comfortable position.

 

"Porthos?" D'Artagnan's voice sounded uncertain. "Shouldn't he eat something?"

  
"He should," sighed Porthos. He tried to decide if it would be a good idea to wake Aramis up. He finally decided against it, although he knew that he would eventually need to wake up the Spaniard  to check on his wounds. He was afraid of what he might find, as Aramis still had quite a high fever. The doctor's words came to his mind, and fear gripped his heart once again.

 

_What if...? No, Aramis **will** survive. There is no other option._

 

He realized that d'Artagnan was talking to someone, his voice soft and gentle. Porthos glanced at the boy, and saw that he had managed to coax Athos to eat. The swordsman looked at him, then at Aramis, who was nestled between them. His lips curled up in a slight smile.

 

“You have talked," he said.

“It's been somewhat of a one-sided conversation... he refuses to say a word."

“But he seems at peace when he is near you.”

Porthos nodded, and struggled not to grin like a madman. But his next thought caused his improved mood to disappear.

 

“Athos, what did they do to him?” he asked, afraid to hear the answer.

His leader did not reply for a few minutes, and Porthos became more and more nervous.

“They whipped him, drugged him…”

“Did they…?”  Porthos realized that he could not bear to finish the sentence.

 

“I… don’t know," whispered Athos.

 

 

 


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos' POV

Athos

 

_What did they do to him?_

_I don’t know…_

_I was there, but I have no idea what actually happened…_

_I cannot tell which scenes that appear in my mind are real, and which are nightmares…_

 

_What kind of friend am I?_

_I don't even know if he betrayed_ _France_ _in a last-ditch attempt to save my life…_

_I have no idea what he has given in return for my life…_

Athos watched Porthos. The big man had started to doze off, their precious Spaniard safe in his arms.

 

_You should have left me behind, Aramis…_

Why had his friend been so intent on saving him? Athos closed his eyes. He felt that he was slowly recovering, but he did not find that reassuring. Not when he did not know how high a price had been paid for his life.

 

The last thing he remembered clearly was searching the monastery. Then he had been shot, and his memory of what happened afterwards was hazy. He tried to recall what had occurred, but the images that started to appear in his thoughts made him uneasy.

 

_He was there once again. He was aware that it was only a dream. A dream forcing him to relive the things that had happened._

 

_Aramis was lying on the floor, as limp as a rag doll. Their captors had finally left him alone. They found no enjoyment in tormenting the medic's listless body, which had stopped trembling some time ago. Athos was not sure if his brother was still alive. But the Spaniard had managed to clean and stitch his wound._

_Had that been before he signed the confession or after? Athos was not sure._

 

_“Aramis…” he whispered, knowing all too well that the marksman would show no reaction. Aramis would never answer his call, as his soul was leaving his body. He could not endure another round of physical and emotional damage._

 

_Oh God! Athos would be the one to have to break the tragic news to Porthos…_

Something abruptly woke him.

 

He looked into Aramis’ concerned eyes. He realized that one of his friend's hands was gently cupping his face, while the other was hovering above his cheek, ready to pat it to wake him up if needed.

 

“Aramis…”  he breathed. "Did you confess?” He needed to know.

The medic recoiled, and his face went deathly pale.

 

Athos felt his fury start to build, but he saw the Spaniard shake his head. The medic's eyes were lowered, and guilt radiated off of him.

 

The lieutenant felt his anger dissipate. “Aramis, you did well. Of course, France's safety is of the utmost importance… but you should have left me! I ordered you to do so more then once.”

 

“Never!" whispered Aramis, his voice hoarse. He started to cough.

Athos suddenly became terrified that blood would appear on his brother’s lips.

 

Aramis hid his face in the pillow in order to not wake up Porthos and d’Artagnan. Athos waited for a few seconds, then gently touched medic’s hair. When Aramis lifted his head, he withdrew his hand.

 

“I need to know what happened, Can you tell me?”  He knew that his words sounded like an order.

 

Aramis closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded briefly.

 

“We were in the monastery. You were shot, then everything exploded. I regained consciousness in a cave that had fallen in. I thought we were under the monastery, but I was wrong. They must have taken us away after the explosion. I tried to patch you up. And then… then I knew we had been caught. They allowed me to tend you properly. Then they drugged me and whipped..." His voice trailed off, and his eyes became unfocused. Aramis was reliving the nightmare once again.

 

“Aramis!”  Athos used his best command voice. It worked.

 

The marksman shivered, and lifted his head.

 

“The herbalist! They said that Allancourt has a good one! Maybe we can use that as evidence against Allancourt!”

 

“The word of a musketeer should be worth more than the word of a commoner, but it hasn’t occurred nothing against a word of the noble," murmured Athos. However, he was happy to see fire in his brother’s eyes once again.

 

“Well... I mean to find him," replied Aramis. “Then… they wanted me to sign a confession… admitting that the Queen and I…”   His voice trailed off.

"Then they started to whip you, and… I just could not stand to watch it… I don’t remember much of what happened afterwards, but I am sure that I didn't write or sign any confession. I am so sorry…that I couldn’t…I couldn’t spare you the pain.”

 

“Aramis… there was no way you could have saved me from that. But I am alive because of your stubbornness." He was silent for a moment, then his curiosity got the better of him. "How did you know that my wound wasn't fatal?” 

 

The Spaniard hesitated for a moment. 

“I didn't."

 

“So why did you stay with me? Why did you sacrifice yourself…” His voice trailed off. Aramis had not mentioned anything like this, but Athos was quite sure that it had happened.

 

“Athos… I could not just abandon you. I… had to do everything I could to save you. I just had to…”  Aramis sounded so lost...so  guilty.

 

The lieutenant closed his eyes. He was furious at his brother for risking his life. He was not worth the sacrifice.

 

“You would do the same for him.” 

A new voice joined their conversation, instantly disarming Athos.

 

The swordsman glanced at d’Artagnan, who was no longer asleep in his bed.

 

The Gascon smiled sheepishly. “I couldn't sleep. You were making too much noise."

 

Porthos mumbled in agreement, but instead of opening his eyes, he covered his head with a blanket.

 

The Gascon got up, and narrowed his eyes at his injured brothers.

“You need to eat," he declared, ignoring Aramis’ slightly confused gaze.

 

Athos smirked at the boy’s words. D’Artagnan rarely had the opportunity to serve as a caregiver, since he was the one who was most often injured. He was completely unaware that he was imitating Aramis’ tone and gestures when he put a plate in front of the marksman, then forced him to drink a warm draught which had been left near the fireplace.

 

He frowned. “Deroux should have come to check on you. Something must have delayed him." 

 

Athos could only hope that the doctor had not become another innocent victim.

 

“Alright… I definitely cannot sleep while you’re eating," muttered Porthos. He sat up and winced, his hand holding his side.

D’Artagnan put a plate in front of the big man. Athos eyed him with concern. “What’s wrong with you?”

“He has managed to break open his stitches twice. I don't think it feels too good," replied d’Artagnan calmly, ignoring Porthos’ growl.

 

Aramis watched him intently. “You should really be more careful.”

“Yeah, I should. But seeing my brother pass out sort of makes me forget about my wounds. I don't think you would have cared to slam your face into the floor."

“It wouldn’t have mattered," mumbled Aramis, the guilt on his face clear.

 

“What are you talking about?” asked Athos.

“Oh, Mis went for a little walk. It wasn’t the smartest thing he's ever done," explained Porthos with a smirk.

 

There was a knock on the door.

 

“Come in”, murmured d’Artagnan, holding a dagger in his hand. He placed himself in the possible line of fire, standing between the doors and his brothers.

 

Constance entered the room with a small basket. The smell of fresh bread and honey immediately filled the room.

 “It's nice to see you all awake. I have some honey cakes for you. And the doctor asked me to check on you and change your bandages.”

“Why didn't he come himself?” asked Athos.

She shrugged. “The King needs him."

 

“Is the King wounded?”

 

She smiled. "Not exactly. He has a cold. He is sneezing and… you know how he is when he's sick--very dramatic. I have to admit, I actually feel a bit sorry for Milady. She is having to serve as his caregiver, as the Queen declared that she cannot risk exposing the Dauphin to an infection." Constance chuckled. "When I last saw Milady, she seemed quite disgusted with the whole situation.  And poor Dr. Deroux has been ordered by the King to stay at his bedside. However, if you need his help, Anne and I have come up with a plan."

 

“You’re calling the Queen by her first name!”

 

Constance nodded, and started to unpack her medical kit, which was full of herbs. Athos could see that she was relieved. When their eyes met, she smiled at him warmly. It was then that he noticed that there was something odd about her dress. To be more precise, a rapier was strapped to her corset.

 

“You’re carrying a weapon!” Athos was astonished.

 

She smiled.

“Yes. Her Majesty has given me permission to do so. It is dangerous here. She said that since I spend most of my time with her or with her wounded musketeers, I should be ready to defend them.”

 

“Constance is really talented with a rapier," Aramis said dreamily.

 

She smiled at him, coloring slightly at his praise. Then her eyes met Athos’ gaze. He could see her expression struggling between a silent plea for acceptance and a fierce look of pride.

 

“D’Artagnan taught you," stated the swordsman.

 

She nodded slightly.

“He made the mistake of asking me what he could do to repay me for my kindness," she explained quickly.

 

“Well… I must see you in action in order to assess both your ability and his skill as a teacher," he commented dryly.

 

It was strangely reassuring that she had the ability to defend herself.

 

Constance's smile was blinding.

“I would be most grateful for any instruction I would receive from you, Monsieur."

She bowed graciously, her eyes dancing.

 

Athos could not help but grin. She was a more than a match for his protégé!

 


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance's POV

Constance

 

She was left alone with the more seriously injured musketeers. The two who were less injured – d’Artagnan and Porthos-- had been summoned by Tréville. The Captain seemed to feel guilty about needing them for guard duty, but the Palace's security was now of the highest priority. Especially now that the King had started to suspect that he had been poisoned.

 

_It must be a pretty ineffective poison if he is only sneezing and coughing…I remember Anne’s torment very well…_

 

Aramis was still sleeping. She felt tears gathering in her eyes as she looked at him. She had been close to sobbing each time she had had to change his dressings. They had managed to keep infection at bay, but the whip marks crossing his back still looked so… Constance was not sure what word was appropriate to describe them. The wound looked awful--but that word did not mean that she found the injured musketeer disgusting. She just wanted to kill the men who had tortured him. She needed to avenge his pain.

 

She felt tears fall on her cheeks, and hid her face behind her hair. The musketeers were sleeping, so…

 

“Constance? What’s wrong?”

 

_Trust Aramis to wake up at the worst possible moment._

“Nothing!" she said hastily. "I’m fine."

“I’ve heard that too many times from d’Artagnan for it to ring true.  Can I help you, Constance?”

 She shook her head.

“I am here to take care of you, not the other way around,” she murmured.

 

Aramis sat up cautiously, but not cautiously enough. He did not quite manage to hide his wince.

 

“Do you need something?” she asked.

“Yes. I need to know what is troubling you.”

“Is it necessary for your recovery?”

“Yes.”

 

She sighed.

“I… am frightened, Aramis… I want to kill them--the men who tortured you.”

“I feel exactly the same way. There’s nothing to be afraid of…”

 

She smiled at him through her tears. 

"Is that how you feel when someone hurts your brother?”

“Yes. Especially when that someone does it on purpose.”

 

It somehow made her feel better to know that her feelings were to be accepted, and that they were normal… well, maybe normal for a soldier, not for a woman, but …

Her hand shifted to the pommel of the rapier.

 

“Did I say something wrong?” asked Aramis, feigning concern.

 

_A sad attempt at teasing._

 

“You don’t need to pretend for me, Aramis...I know you are anything but yourself right now."

 

He smirked.

“I prefer to pretend… with time, I’ll get used to it. Besides, it suits me. It’s my way of dealing with emotions. A safe way. And… they need me to be more like my normal self,” he whispered. “Otherwise, the guilt will suffocate them.”

 

“Have you ever thought about yourself?”

 

“Oh, many times. But I don’t think I should go into the details with a woman.”

 

She knew what he meant. But she hardly believe in it. Anne had told her enough about their night in the convent.

 

They sat in companionable silence.

 

Her heart ached for him as she watched him struggle to find a comfortable way to sit. She could see pain in his eyes. But he turned down the offer of a draught.

 

“Why…?” she asked, confused.

“Anything strong enough to deal with the pain of these injuries makes me sleepy.”

“You need sleep.”

“Not a drug induced sleep.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The amount of time I need to wake up from a nightmare…”

 

She could not agree with him.

 

“Do you want me to read some poetry to you?” she asked, recalling the book she had borrowed from Anne.

 

He hummed in agreement.

"Okay, but only if you promise that d'Artagnan won't get jealous.”

 

“We have never read poetry together…” 

Her smile faded.

“Aramis, do you think he… “  

Her voice trailed off. She was suddenly afraid to ask the question she wanted to ask. She was a married woman! It was completely wrong for her to be thinking about the feelings of another man!

 

“He loves you. There is a fine line between the fear of physical engagement and the fear of being rejected. You have be able to feel it.”

 

She should feel offended. She should upbraid him for bringing it up… but he was answering her question. And she knew that this was an even more difficult conversation for him than it was for her.

 

“I told him once then we could only be friends. Although… my feelings are not strictly of friendship. I was sure that I could avoid… complicating things by going beyond that but… I do love him and… I am afraid that lying to him now may only harm him.”

 

“Constance, forgive me my boldness, but… do you want be his lover?”

 

“Yes, I do!”

  _Oh my God! I couldn't wait to blurt out my answer! What am I thinking?! I must be going mad…_

She looked nervously at the marksman, trying to gauge his reaction. She was relieved to see him smile, although it was a sad smile.

 

“That’s good. I am happy for him," he replied gently.

 

Her smile was full of gratitude. There was no other person with whom she could have this kind of conversation. She could not torment Anne by telling her about her hopes and dreams regarding d'Artagnan. After all, the Queen could never hope to have a real relationship with the musketeer she loved.

 

“Constance, be careful. I… I have no idea how much time he needs... before he will be ready.”

 

_You cannot even imagine yourself in an intimate situation…_

“I want to kill them!” she growled. The depth of her anger took her by surprise.

 

“So do I.” He put his hand on hers.  "Believe me--so do I."

 

Their conversation flashed through her mind when Aramis finally succumbed to sleep. The door slowly opened, and she lost no time in reacting.  Seconds later, she found herself in the front of the intruders, the rapier in her hand. She parried the first attack, taken aback by its speed. She tried to press forward, but had to focus on defending herself against the two masked men.

 

She darted a glance towards the beds, and saw that both musketeers were alert, their pistols in their hands. That sight reassured her. She almost dodged a wild slash, but felt the pain of the blade bite into her shoulder. But when her opponent tried to reach her once again, she ducked, giving Aramis the opportunity to shoot. She was not disappointed. Her enemy dropped to his knees, his hands clutching his bloody side.

 

She ignored him, and attacked the second man. He parried her blade, but his own attack was inefficient.  Constance, frustrated, kicked the man hard in the knee. It was not enough to bring him down, but it was enough of a distraction that she was able to slice him neatly from neck to abdomen. The man screamed, then fell.

 

Aramis was beside her in an instant. They secured their prisoners.

 

“So, I see you’re making the same mistakes as d’Artagnan. You are too eager, which leads you to take too broad of a stance. You need to shorten your steps, and move more quickly. Your movements are not economical enough… when I feel better, I’ll show what exactly I mean.”

 

“Does that mean that you will spare with me?!”

 

Athos seemed to be unaware what he was doing, and nodded. Constance could not resist the urge to hug him, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He looked stunned by her reaction....and totally confused.

 

“Careful, Constance, you’re sending him into shock," chuckled Aramis. Suddenly, his smile vanished.

 

“You’re injured!” He pointed at a dark stain on her sleeve.

“It’s just a scratch.” She was suddenly not so sure. She did not feel any pain. Was that a bad thing?

 

He motioned for her to sit down. She allowed him to check on her wound.

“You need stitches," he murmured.

 

“Are you up to doing that?” she asked, her voice betraying her concern.

 

He nodded.

 

He started to clean her wound. It hurt quite a bit, so she distracted herself by watching Aramis. He was treating her the same way as his beloved brothers. Aramis was always gentle with wounded patients, but with his closest friends, he displayed his affection in every gesture, and in every glance. It meant that he really cared for the person he was tending. His actions were so mindful--so compassionate.

 

_I am one of them… I am his sister…_

 

These thoughts warmed her heart, and made the treatment bearable--even when Aramis poured brandy on her shoulder.

 

The medic smiled at her. "You'll heal."

Constance mirrored his expression.

 

She knew she would be fine. She knew Aramis well enough to recognize how he behaved when he took care of superficial, non-serious wounds.

 

“Thank you, Aramis," she said softly, then turned to Athos.

 

“Athos, what are you doing?!” she snapped.

He ignored her, focusing on trying to get up from the bed.

 

“Athos?” Aramis was watching him closely.

 

“I need to talk with our guests," he muttered.

 

“You need to lie down!" retorted Constance. 

 

Aramis was already at his friend' side.

“I’ll talk to them," offered the medic. “You’re right. We must act quickly if they are not to be left to bleed out."

 

He knelt near on of the prisoners, and started to whisper into his ear. Constance watched as the man's face grew more and more frightened.

 

“What happened here?!” Tréville was standing in the doorway.

“Would you be kind enough to interrogate these men, Captain?” asked Aramis.

Tréville smirked. “With pleasure!" 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Athos could commented on Constance's fighting skills :)


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Brenwan as she wanted an interrogation :)
> 
>  

 

Tréville

"What happened here?!" he asked in amazement. His gaze never left Aramis.

  
"Oh, these men came in with their weapons unsheathed, presumably with less than honorable intentions.   Constance defended us quite nicely.  I have just started to explain our guest how very eager I am to test on him the poison that I gave our last visitor..."

Tréville sighed. If he had not known better, he would never have been able to see through Aramis' mask of excitement and self-satisfaction.

He turned to  Constance . "Thank you, Madame. I owe you a debt of gratitude."  He was not sure if he liked the fire he saw in her eyes.

  
"Yes, you do. And as it happens, I want very much to learn how to use a musket." Her eyes were sparkling with enthusiasm.

"I think that this you should discuss this further with Aramis. I won't let any one less skilled than him teach you."

“Thank you!"  Constance clapped her hands with joy.

The Captain waited for a retort from the marksman, but none came.

He gestured towards the prisoners. "Aramis, can I ask you to treat their wounds?" The medic nodded, and set to work. 

Tréville went over to Athos. The lieutenant was still half lying on the bed, his grip on his pistol now relaxed.

  
"How do you feel?" he asked quietly

  
"I'll be fine,"  muttered Athos, obviously uncomfortable with the scrutiny of his commanding officer. 

  
"What's wrong?"

  
"I find it quite disturbing that these men were able to enter the Palace so easily. They must have had inside help. We need to find out who aided them."

  
"Do you think there is a traitor among the musketeers?"  Tréville was not sure what Athos hoped to achieve by carrying on this conversation in front of the prisoners.

  
"There is not much difference between us and them," observed his swordsman.

"There is a huge difference!" protested the man who had been shot by Aramis. The other prisoner had already lost consciousness.

  
Tréville glanced at him doubtfully. "A huge one?"

  
"You serve the Spanish whore!"

 In response, Aramis applied intense pressure on the wound, causing the man to gasp.

"Mind your speech! There is a lady in the room!" snapped Tréville. He was not sure if was a good idea for  Constance to remain in the room and witness the interrogation. 

  
Reading his thoughts,  Constance murmured, "I think I will go and fetch the poison."

_ Not a reassuring thought… _

  
"Tell Tannard to come here!" he ordered.

  
She nodded, then left.

Aramis pointed to the man whom  Constance had wounded. "He won't survive, but that one over there needs to have a bullet removed, and then be properly sewn up. But I doubt he'll be conscious enough to carry on a conversation after all that."

  
Treville nodded. "So, we must talk beforehand." He looked at Aramis, knowing that the Spaniard would have to tend to the bandit. He did not like how pale his medic was. 

  
Then an idea came to his mind. Aramis had told him once that he wanted to train d'Artagnan in field medicine. This seemed like the perfect opportunity.

A knock was heard at the door, and Tannard came in. Tréville decided to move the prisoners from the Inseparables' room. His musketeers needed to rest.

He was satisfied with the room his men had prepared for prisoners. It was completely empty.

"So you say that the only difference between us is our attitude towards the Queen. I don't agree. Your commander tortured my men in order to make them write a false confession. Do you think we are about to do the same?!" Tréville was determined to continue the previous conversation.

The prisoner's expression shocked him. There was shame and surprise on his face.

  
"He has changed...." whispered the man.

  
"Your leader?"

  
"Yes. He is much less honorable than he used to be. It is said he was really furious when they escaped..."

  
"Is this odd?"

  
"Yes! He has never taken such things so personally."

_ You’ve just given me an opening. Well done. _

  
"Maybe someone is paying him... and is very anxious to see some results. So far, the Queen is still alive. So is the Dauphin..."

  
"We never planned to kill the child! If we can just free him from his mother's influence..."

  
"I believe your commander had a different fate in mind for him."

  
"No... not an innocent child! What has possessed him in order to make him think such things?!" 

_ Ah, this is more and more interesting… _

  
"So, your orders were to kill my injured men?!"

  
The prisoner nodded. “It was an unusual order…”

“Maybe your leader is afraid that they know too much about him… Have you ever seen his face?"

  
"No."

  
"So... a change in leadership could have easily happened."

  
The man fell silent.  Tréville was more than sure that he was from a noble family. He was tempted to let the man escape. Once free, he could be quite useful by planting doubt in his comrades' mind. The Captain just needed to work on him a bit more.

A knock at the door cut his musings short. He opened it, and stepped out into the hall. A page stood near Tannard, who was on guard duty outside the door.

"The King requests your presence." The page waited for the Captain to follow him. 

  
It was unlikely to mean anything good.

The Captain entered the room, and bowed. The King was lying on the couch. A clearly disgruntled Milady was at his side. Deroux sat on a low stool. He looked terribly tired. One of the King’s physicians from  Paris stood next to him.

“Tréville." King’s voice was rough, his throat obviously sore. "I am going back to  Paris , as I want to be there for Christmas Eve. I will be back the first week of January, and I expect this situation to be resolved by then. I will leave you here with eight of your musketeers. As to your four favorites-- how do you call them? I am referring to your lieutenant--the one who defeated Victor in their swordfight--and his three companions. I don’t want them irritating Allancourt. The comte has generously offered to give them compensation if there is any possibility that his former men mistreated them.  So, I do not want to hear anymore about this affair.  Ah, one last thing… if you do not find a workable solution to this whole mess, it will mean the end of the musketeers regiment. It will become part of the Red Guard.”

“There won’t be any need for such drastic action, Sire. I assure you that we will find the bandits who dared to attack the Queen.”

“I expect no less. We are heading to  Paris tomorrow, with the rest of your men. You can leave now.”

The Captain bowed. Rage was boiling in his heart, but his face was wore the mask of an ideal soldier. He caught Milady’s glance. There was a warning in her eyes. He did not understand what she wanted to tell him.

He turned back to his best men. As he expected, all the Inseparables were in their room. He entered, and gestured to them to stay where they were.

Porthos was sitting on the bed. Aramis was curled around him, his head on his lap. D’Artagnan sat near Athos, a tray of delicious smelling food positioned cautiously between them.

“The King wants us to solve the problem of the “True Musketeers” before New Year's. He wants you four to work on it. Just so you know, he has threatened to disband us if we fail."

“Sir, but Athos…” Aramis sat up and started to protest.

“I know." The Captain silenced him. "Still, he can sit here and go through all the information we are going to bring in. Aramis, I need you to tend to the man who has shot. You can use this opportunity to teach d’Artagnan how to deal with bullets. However, I need him to survive. We will allow him to escape. Obviously, we will follow him in order to keep an eye on him. But before you start to operate, I need to have another word with him.”

“Sir, I want to find the herbalist," Aramis stated.

“The King has declared that you will cease investigating Allancourt," the Captain said bitterly.

“There is more, isn’t there?” asked Athos.

“Yes." He did not really want to go into an explanation now, but he felt four pairs of eyes staring at him. They deserved the truth. He sighed.

“Allancourt in his generosity has decided to pay compensation for the deeds of the men who are now most likely no longer in his employ. I don’t know his exact plans, but the King is pleased with his attitude.”

“So, he wants to pay us for his man having had their fun. How… thoughtful!” Aramis' voice was full of venom.

D’Artagnan was taken aback.  He just stared at Tréville, completely in shock.

After a moment, the marksman said quietly, “I only want to ask the herbalist for help. I have the Queen’s parchment, after all."  He was still deathly pale. His eyes were huge, and his voice was trembling.

_ It is rage? Or fear?...Rage. _

“You can go tomorrow. But Porthos and d’Artagnan will go with you.”

“Thank you, sir," murmured Aramis.

It was really too soon to let the marksman resume his duties. But Tréville knew that distraction would be a better cure for Aramis than rest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  Riversidewren, thank you.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and reviewing! I love to know your thoughts!


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

Aramis

 

He closed his eyes when another wave of pain hit his back. It was too soon to be on horseback, but he could not wait. Obviously, the herbalist might end up being a false lead, but the Spaniard needed to act. He was unable to bear sitting for any longer in the Palace, even if rest gave him the best chance of healing properly.

 

“Aramis?” Porthos' face showed his concern.

 

“I’m fine."

 

His brother sighed, then leaned over and took the reins of his horse.

“Rest a bit. You know we should stop.”

 

“I only want to take two days to get there--no longer!" replied Aramis stubbornly.

 

The medic vaguely remembered arriving at an inn. He hoped that he had managed to make it to his bed without help, but he would not bet on it.

 

A muffled cry woke him. He instantly reached for a weapon.

 

A candle was lit, and he saw d’Artagnan look at him.

“A nightmare?” asked the Gascon.

 

This time, he recognized his name, called out in a voice full of despondency and grief.

 

“Porthos?” he whispered, and moved to the other bed. His friend seemed to be caught up in a nightmare. Aramis gently touched his face.

 

“No! Please! Mis!!! Don’t die!!”

 

The marksman shook his friend.

“Porthos! Wake up!”

 

His brother mumbled something, then opened his eyes. Suddenly, Aramis was crushed in an embrace. He did not quite manage to hold back a moan, and Porthos mumbled an apology.

 

“Aramis," he whispered, breathing into his hair. His fingers sought for the marksman’s pulse point on his neck.

 

“I am alive. I am here, brother," murmured Aramis.

 

“Good to know. Sorry to have woken you.”

 

“Nothing has happened," replied the medic, and nestled against Porthos' side. The big man smiled fondly, and stroked Aramis’ hair.

 

_Why did I not do this earlier? Ah… because I don’t remember how I came to be in this room... or in my bed._

The weather was really awful. The wind was heavy with rain. Aramis was shivering badly, despite the fact that Porthos had given him his cloak. The medic had refused any opportunity to stop at an earlier point on their journey. When it came to be evening, they were rewarded by the sight of the village, which was situated on the shore of the Esonne.

 

D’Artagnan knocked on the door of the first house, and asked where he could find the healer. They were immediately directed to his home. The house was dilapidated, and appeared to be quite old.

 

Aramis was quite astonished, as he had expected the man to be rather well-off. He knocked on the door. A child opened it a few moments later.

 

The marksman bent down to the child, and gave him a friendly smile. “Hello, I'm Aramis of the King Musketeers. I need some advice from a healer."

 

“I'm not sure this is a good time," said the boy hesitantly. "My father is tired." 

 

A woman’s voice called from the back of the house. “Paul, who’s there?”

 

“There's a man here who wants to speak with Papa.”

 

“So let him in!”

 

Aramis entered the house. A woman in her mid forties welcomed him. She insisted that his brothers also come in.

 

“What can I do for you, Messieurs?” A grey-haired man entered the room. He appeared ill, or very tired. His complexion was pale, and he had dark shadows under his eyes.

 

Aramis unwound the parchment that the Queen had given him.

 

“I need your help. A few weeks ago, my friend was captured and given a draught which intensified his pain significantly. He still seems to be suffering from some side-effects.”

 

“Do you have any idea what was given to him?”

 

“Unfortunately, all I know is that you were one who prepared the draught.”

 

“That's impossible!" protested the herbalist.

 

“Why? Why did you use herbs to cause pain and hallucinations?! Why did you create such a concoction?” Aramis was sure he was talking to the right person.

 

The herbalist remained silent, and merely stared at the table.

“I cannot help you, Monsieur. You should leave.”

 

“Why? If I have been misled, why you don’t just tell me whom I need to talk to? Did they somehow threaten you? Because you know, I can be very persuasive…"  Aramis leaned towards him, a wince inevitable when he pulled on his stitches.

 

“Where is Paul’s older sister?” d’Artagnan suddenly asked. Aramis glanced at him in shock. He had not noticed that the Gascon had stopped to talk to the boy.

 

The herbalist went white.

“Leave!” he cried out.

 

“So, they took your daughter in order to force you to work for them," concluded Aramis. He saw how desperately the herbalist had tried to look angry instead of terrified.

 

“They’ll kill her!”

 

“Not if we save her," said Aramis. "Do you know where she is being held?”

 

“Yes… they are holding her captive in an old mill.”

 

“Listen to me – we will free your daughter. We will find a safe place for your family. But I need you to write down everything you gave them--every single plant, every recipe.”

 

“I cannot write," muttered the herbalist. "In fact, I couldn't read the parchment you showed me, but I recognized the royal seal."

 

“So, you will have to dictate all the information to us.”  This was bad news. They had no time to waste!

 

“What about Madeleine?”

 

“We cannot bring her back here. Do you think she will need medical attention?”

 

“Yes… I’ll give you all the herbs you may need… but… a woman should really treat her…”

 

Aramis suddenly felt very cold. An awful certainty started to creep into his heart. He realized that he could barely breathe. He was hovering on the edge between reality, and the images he had tried so hard to forget. The past was slowly getting the upper hand.

 

“Aramis.” A heavy hand on his arm grounded him. "We will save the girl, take care of his family, then take him back to Fontainebleau with us. We need someone to write down his recipes, so this will give Athos something to do. By the time we get back to the palace, all the nobles will already be gone.”

 

“So--I suggest you start packing your herbs," murmured d’Artagnan.

 

“You will stay here," Aramis told the Gascon. The lad nodded. The marksman was glad to see how easily his little brother had accepted this. He had expected him to protest.

 

“I am going with you. I want to see my child!” insisted the woman. “I want to be there when you rescue her!"

 

“We cannot be responsible for your safety, Madame…”

 

“My safety?! I will show you the best way to approach the mill…”

 

“It’s not a good idea…”

 

“Do you have any idea what does it mean to lose your child?” hissed the woman.

 

Aramis felt as if his heart had been stabbed with a knife. 

 

“Actually, yes. He knows exactly what that feels like." He dimly heard Porthos’ words.

 

The woman mumbled an apology.

 

“I want to take the girl to Louise," murmured Aramis. He spoke so softly that only his brother could hear him.

 

“It would be better for her to be with her mother," replied Porthos, his voice a bit louder.

 

“It's too dangerous.  She will bring the other five children with her. Too many people will attract too much attention," sighed Aramis. He did not want to endanger Louise any further.

 

The healer’s wife heard the last part of their conversation.

 

“What will you do with us when you take away my husband?” she asked anxiously.

 

“I know a place near Igny. They will welcome a herbalist there. And they owe me a debt,” answered Aramis. "Look, we don't plan to arrest your husband. The problem is that we don’t have the time right now to write down all the information he can share with us. We are afraid that… bandits will try to harm your family further… and I am sure that they will be ordered to find Madeleine once we rescue her. That is why you cannot stay here…”

 

“It’s not a problem for me to leave. I hate this place!” she burst out. "But first I need to see my child. Then we will decide what to do.”

 

The woman finally gave them her name, which was Clementine. Then she led them close to the old mill, and showed them a little path that was hidden by tall bushes. She stayed hidden while they sneaked closer to the mill.

 

There were three sleeping men in the main room of the building. The smell of cheap wine was suffocating.

 

“We cannot kill them," murmured Porthos with regret as they passed through the room.

 

“Stay here!” whispered Aramis. He lifted a bar that opened the only door to the room. It was a kind of shallow cellar. The only occupant of the cellar was lying on the floor, curled up in a ball and shivering. Aramis knelt near the woman. Her back was covered in blood, and he knew that she must have been whipped recently.

 

“Mademoiselle?”, he whispered.

 

She raised her head. Her eyes were large and fearful in her bruised face.

 

He felt as if he had been punched in the stomach.

_She is fifteen or less…_

“I’ll be nice to you, Monsieur. I’ll do anything you want… just please don’t beat me… please…" 

 Her voice was pleading, and there were tears in her frightened eyes.

 

Aramis wanted to comfort her, but he knew they had to act quickly. He was not sure how much longer he could stay in this room without going into either a panic attack or a killing rage. The second possibility seemed more and more tempting.

 

“Hush… don't worry. I am here to save you. But you must be quiet!" he whispered. When he helped her to stand, she swayed. He supported her with his arm, ignoring the pain of his own wounds. He gently covered her with his cloak, and helped her out of the room. She was shaking.

 

_And so am I…_

Another tremor went through his body. Porthos followed him silently. They met up with Clementine. Without a word, she took her daughter in her arms.

 

Aramis took a few steps to the side, and collapsed on his knees. He could not fight the nausea anymore, and became violently sick. He had no idea how long he vomited. Minutes later, the dry heaves were still painfully ravaging his body. It took him some time to realize that there was a warm, steady presence near him. He leaned into it. He wanted to lose himself in Porthos’ warmth.... to be hypnotized by his gentle, rumbling voice.

 


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos' POV

Athos

 

“Stay safe." those had been Aramis' words when they had left.

 

_I am safe here, brother. But are you?_

He knew that there was no reason to worry. His brothers would not return any earlier than three days from now. Still… Aramis was in no condition to ride. He needed rest, but he could not bear the lack of activity-especially after Allancourt’s "generous offer." The nobleman had treated the marksman like a prostitute. Athos felt anger building inside him.

 

“Don’t think. Sleep." 

It was Constance’s voice.

 

“I told you that you should have left with the Queen," he murmured.

 

“You forget that she allowed me to stay with you. But I'm not sure I like the tone of your voice. Is my company really that bad?”

 

“No. It's just that I am not the most entertaining person.”

 

“You have your own specific charm. One must only learn to recognize it.”

 

“I think you've been spending too much time with Aramis.”

 

“Don’t suggest that to d’Artagnan." She chuckled. "Do you know that Aramis never once tried to seduce me? I think I should be offended.”

 

“Ask him why he didn't," he muttered. 

She was right. It was strange. Before d’Artagnan had appeared at the garrison, there had been no reason for the charming marksman not to try to romance her.

 

After a moment's thought, he said, "You know what? I think your husband is not dangerous enough for Aramis. He lives for risk, especially in his love affairs."

 

Athos was bored out of his mind. He was well enough not to have to sleep all day, but he was still too weak to be out of bed for more than a short period of time. He already had had a chance to test his condition. He knew he should be happy that he had made it to the door and back without collapsing on the floor, but the weakness of his body irritated him. He had already cleaned all his weapons. Twice.

 

“Constance, do you know how to train by dueling with your own shadow?" he asked.

 

 “Of course!  After all, you have kept d’Artagnan quite busy.”  She gave him a look that resembled a pout. “I have had to train by myself most of the time.”

 

“Good. So get your rapier and show me. I’ll correct your form.”

 

She clapped her hands together, and cast him a blinding smile.  “Thank you! I will just make some room here…”

 

“No! You’re going to learn how to fight with all this furniture in your way... and how to use it to your advantage.”

 

She nodded, and went to get her weapon.

 

He observed her with approval, although she did make many mistakes.

 

_Each one of those mistakes could easily kill you. I must check on d’Artagnan's skills…_

After a few minutes, he started to give her hints. He was really impressed with how well she managed to follow his instructions--especially in a dress! He could only imagine how difficult it would be to in a full skirt.

 

Finally, he called for a halt, as she looked very tired. She stopped in the middle of a movement and stood still, trying to catch her breath.

 

“You need more training. But you don’t have many bad habits. That’s promising.”

 

He liked to see her smile. His protégé had found an extraordinary woman. But what if she did not plan to be with him? She had broken his heart once, and now the boy was much too sensible to risk it again.

 

“Do you intend to be with d’Artagnan?”

 

“Yes, I do. I know it won’t be easy but… when I first fell in love with him, I was so naïve. I believed my husband would never know--or would just let me go. And now I am aware that I will pay a price for it…” She sighed.

 

Athos nodded, and was silent for a few moments.  After a time, he spoke. “He needs you."

 

She smiled, and excused herself to get them some food. When she returned, he was quite surprised to see her bring in a bundle of her clothes along with the tray of food.

 

“Don’t look at me that way! I need something to wear if I'm going to stay here for the night.”

 

“I am not critically injured!" he protested. "There is no reason for you to keep vigil by my bedside.”

 

“I don’t plan to keep vigil. I merely plan to share the room with you, and to sleep. You have said yourself that the Palace is a dangerous place!”

 

“That’s true," he agreed, giving her a wry smile.

 

After they ate, he laid down, and finally succumbed to sleep.

 

Danger.

He could feel it.

At the same time, he felt exhausted, and half-asleep.

He heard Constance’s cry, and lunged in her direction, weapon in hand. 

Amidst a shower of red droplets, he saw her falling. 

And then there was darkness.

 

Pain.

His hand wanted to touch the source of pain, which seemed to be located in his head. 

Then he realized he was bound.

_So it was not a nightmare?!!_

He remembered Constance had been wounded-- or perhaps even killed. 

He had not defended his brother’s sweetheart. 

He had failed.

 

He heard footsteps. The door opened.

 

“So, the mighty Athos! Nice to see you again!”

 

_We were right, the leader of the True Musketeers is alive._

Athos opened his eyes. He saw Constance lying on the floor in a puddle of blood. Her face was covered with blood as well.

 

“She has nothing to do with you! Release her!" growled Athos.

 

“She is too close to the Spanish whore to be freed. And you seem to be quite fond of her. I will check and see if the lady can join our conversation."

 

He started to heat his dagger. When it began to glow, he knelt next to Constance.

 

“Don’t, please!” cried Athos. “Do it to me, not her!”

 

The bandit touched the blade to Constance’s cheek. The woman regained consciousness with a guttural scream. Athos flinched in sympathy.

 

“Now that I have got your attention, you will tell me what you know about us.”

 

“I know that you are a group of traitors who torture and murder people!"

 

“How amusing. Tell me, where have your friends gone?"

 

Athos did not answer. He looked helplessly at Constance, who was quite lucid now. Their eyes locked. She tried to smile reassuringly, but failed.

 

And then another scream pierced the air as their captor pressed the heated blade to her cheek once again.

 

“Leave her alone!” shouted Athos.

 

“Why?”  The man looked at her, then shrugged, and left her side--but not before he viciously kicked her.

 

“Constance?” whispered Athos. 

 

The bandit prepared a liquid mixture, then handed it to him.

 

“Drink, musketeer!”

 

The liquid smelled horrible. But when Athos hesitated, the bandit started to reheat the blade. He quickly drank it, and had nearly finished when the pain hit. It was localized in his abdomen, and was so agonizing that he curled into a ball. But better that then to cause Constance to experience pain!

 

When the whip lashed against him, it took him by surprise.

 

“I ask you once again, what do you know about us?!” shouted their captor.

 

“I know that you are a stupid idiot!" spat Constance. "A cruel man, who should be put in prison to rot!" 

 

“You will learn to treat a noble with respect, commoner!" he snarled.

 

_Constance_ _! No!_

Athos was aware that her words to their captor had given him a moment of reprieve. But now he feared for the young woman. 


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' POV

Porthos

 

He hated to have to say it, but they could not stay there any longer. He stroked Aramis’ hair as the marksman leaned into him. Porthos knew he was the only thing keeping his friend upright.

 

“We need to go," he whispered.

 

Aramis nodded absentmindedly, and allowed Porthos to lift him onto his feet. He swayed slightly, and Porthos waited while he found his balance.

 

Clementine looked at them, her chin resting on her daughter's head.

 

“We must hide her. You cannot stay with her. It would look too suspicious." Aramis' voice was raw.

 

“Madeleine, darling...I am afraid they are right. Will you go with them? They will take you to a safe place."

 

The girl shook her head violently, and hid her face in her mother’s arms.

 

“Porthos, we cannot separate them. D’Artagnan will have to take the other children and the herbalist to the Palace. It’s the only way.”, decided Aramis.

 

The dark skinned musketeer knew that his friend was right.

 

They went back to their horses. Porthos was ready to leave in order to let d'Artagnan know the plan, but Aramis declared he would do it. For a moment, the big man wanted to protest, but then he understood that the marksman needed a few moments alone to regain his composure. So he reluctantly nodded his assent, and watched Aramis disappear into the darkness.

 

Porthos took up a vantage point some distance away in order to give the two women some privacy. He hated the fact that his brother had gone alone, but they had no other option. 

 

“As soon as Aramis returns, we will set out. It will be a hard ride.”  He was muttering to himself, trying not to think about the medic, who might get caught in the darkness.

 

_Aramis' empty eyes staring up at the sky. The blue tinge on his frozen lips..._

_No! It is just a nightmare._

_And the memories from Savoy when we found Aramis in that damned forest. It is not winter… well… it is winter, but there is no snow…_

He heard a bird call out in the darkness. Aramis was coming back. Safe and sound. He relaxed a bit.

 

“D’Artagnan will leave for Fontainebleau in two hours," the medic announced. His eyes met Porthos’ gaze. There was an unspoken question in them.

 

Porthos gave him a slight smile, hoping  to brush his concern away.

 

They helped the women mount, then set off. Aramis led the party, navigating their course over the dark muddy roads.

 

_I would already have been lost at least three-- no four--times._

But his brother seemed to know how to find his way. Porthos noticed that Clementine was shivering, and he wrapped his cloak around her. The woman stiffened a bit, but did not protest. The dark skinned musketeer was dismayed when he realized that the Aramis had given all of his warm clothing to Madeleine. He felt for the poor girl, but hated that his brother was riding unprotected from the elements on such a windy, rainy night.

 

Their only stops were to give the horses a brief respite. The injured girl was asleep. It spoke volumes about her exhaustion, but probably was the best way for her to get through their difficult journey. Clementine, on the other hand, fought sleep. She must have been extremely sore, but never said a word.

 

When the night started to lose its grip upon them, Aramis murmured, "We should be there by afternoon." It would still be some time until the sun rose. Indeed, with the heavy cloud cover, the morning sky would probably be a dark grey, and not so easy to tell from night.

 

It started to rain. Again. After a few hours, even Porthos was shivering. He dared not think about how the cold was affecting Aramis. Since the medic rode in the lead, the big man could not see his face. He seemed to be slumped in his saddle. Porthos guessed that that was how Aramis was dealing with the awful wind, which threatened to blow them off the road. The only time that they got a few moments of relief was when they rode through the forest, and got some shelter from the tall trees.

 

Finally, the terrain started to look familiar. Porthos bit his lip when he recalled his desperate chase after Aramis some months ago. At the time, the marksman had seemed to be possessed with a death wish. Suddenly, the vague hint of smoke in the air got his attention. It smelled like salvation.

 

 A few minutes later, they reached Louise’s house, and stopped in surprise. There was a new building made of freshly cut wood that stood right next to the old one. Before they had even managed to dismount, the door opened, and Louise appeared.

 

“Aramis?! Porthos?! I am so happy to see you, Messieurs! How badly are you injured?”

 

“Louise, we need your help," Aramis began. The herbwoman immediately turned her intense eyes on him, as if waiting for him to lose consciousness.

 

“We need to hide them." Aramis nodded towards the women. "And the girl needs medical help," he murmured. 

 

“So, you will be the first guests in my… workplace. After all, it was thanks to your Captain that it was built. Pierre will take care of your horses.”

 

“We really should be going," said the marksman, hesitating.

 

“Nonsense! Your animals need rest. And you looked like you're ready to fall on your face from exhaustion. Come in!”

 

Clementine dismounted, allowing Porthos to take Madeleine from Aramis.  He carried the girl inside Louise's house, and gently laid her on the bed.

 

“Do you promise me that you’re not secretly bleeding out?” Louise's expression was stern.

 

“We promise! We are fine, Louise," replied Aramis.

 

“Then I suggest that you go over to my workplace and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll bring you some food and hot water--and then I will come and check on you.”

 

_Are all medics so bossy?!_

 

“Yes, Madame," chuckled Porthos, bowing slightly.

 

They did as she had instructed. The room had a large bed, and was really cozy. It was not so cold in here. Several dried plants were hanging in the rafters.

 

Porthos started the fire in the fireplace. He realized that his friend was still sitting in his wet clothes. He urged the marksman to take them off, then bundled him up in some blankets. Aramis was too tired to protest.

 

_It makes me uneasy to see him so compliant…_

Pierre brought them some warm spiced wine, a loaf of bread, and some hot food. Porthos did not know exactly what was in the dish they were served, but it was really quite tasty, and that was all he cared about. Nevertheless, he was observing the medic closely.

 

“Aramis, don’t tell me you're already done eating!"

 

“I am," murmured the marksman. He laid his spoon next to the bowl, which was still nearly full. “I am just too tired to eat."

 

_I am so worried about you, brother…_

 

This, Porthos believed. However, he was adamant that the bandages covering Aramis' back had to be changed before he went to sleep. The medic lay down on the bed. The dark skinned musketeer was in the process of unwinding the bandages when Louise came in.

 

“He's not bleeding out?” She glanced at the healing injuries, and paled. She disappeared for a moment, then came back with a jar and some sort of balm. The smell was very aromatic.

 

“Mis, you're going to smell like a sophisticated stew!" the big man teased.

 

His brother did not react, and fear gripped Porthos' heart.

“Mis?!!”

 

Louise smiled. “He is merely asleep. Don’t wake him up. He needs the rest.”

 

It took her quite a bit of time to change Aramis’ dressing. He did not even flinch. Despite the healer’s words, Porthos watched him with growing worry.

 

The herbwoman looked up at him, and sighed. "I wouldn't lie to you. There is nothing wrong with him. He just needs to rest."

 

Porthos gave her a slight smile, and nodded.

She was right. He could rest, secure in the knowledge that his brother was safe.

 

_He was safe._

_He should have been safe._

_So why was blood dripping from his lips, staining his skin, which was far too pale?_

 

_“Mis!” cried Porthos. His brother struggled to keep his eyes open as his fingers squeezed Porthos' hand._

_To give him a sign that he still was with him._

_To ground himself against the pain._

_To fight the panic when it seemed as if each breath could not supply him with enough air._

_Until… his fingers became limp. Porthos stared at his eyes--devoid of life, but still full of pain._

_“Mis!!!”_

_It was so cruel._

_Porthos hid his face in the medic's palm, and cried. He prayed for Aramis’ God to take him along with his brother._

“Porthos!” a voice reached him.

 

_He did not want to be a part of reality without his beloved friend._

He was shaken violently, and then he could feel drops of something cold on his face.

“Come on!” The voice was relentless.

 

It sounded like Aramis. It sounded like salvation.

 

Porthos opened his eyes to see Aramis kneeling near him.

“You’re alive!” he whispered, uncertain if he should really dare to believe in this miracle.

“Yes, Porthos. Sit up!" There was a trace of an order in the medic’s voice. The dark skinned musketeer obeyed.

 

Aramis positioned himself behind Porthos, his fingers digging into the tense muscles of his friend's back and arms.

 

“Your nightmares… do they involve the same situation?”

 

“No… the only thing they have in common is that you die, every bloody time!”  

He hissed when Aramis came across a sore muscle.

 

“I am sorry…” whispered the medic. Humming softly, he focused on his ministrations. Porthos leaned against him and relaxed, closing his eyes. He liked to be cared for, especially when he was not in pain.  _Pain_.

 

“Mis, is this causing you pain?”

 

“No,” murmured the medic, then chuckled softly. "Believe me, I am not going to sacrifice myself in order to help you relax."

 

“I don't believe you," muttered Porthos.

 

“I am deeply offended at your words."

Aramis put more pressure against the stiff knot of muscles under his hands.

 

“Fine! I’ll behave, I promise!”

 

A chuckle was his only answer. Porthos was slowly succumbing to sleep. Aramis allowed him to lie down and nestled against him, using his broad chest as a pillow.

 

“You’re not too comfortable?” murmured Porthos.

 

“I don’t think that is possible," came the sleepy answer.

 

Porthos was relieved. His brother seemed to be feeling much better. Or he was pretending to feel better. Even if he was pretending, it meant that his condition had improved.

 

Louise woke them when she came in the morning with fresh bread, which smelled wonderful. She gave them a moment to get ready, then brought in some eggs and cheese, and sat with them at the table.

 

“How is Madeleine?” asked Aramis.

 

“Physically, she will recover… Clementine told me that someone will come to take them to Igny. The girl needs at least a month here, if it is possible…”

 

“It may be dangerous…”

 

“I don’t think that a visit from my cousins is so dangerous." She winked at him. “Here is the salve to put on on your wounds. And I won’t take no for an answer! Monsieur Porthos, you must take care of him. He neglects his own needs…”

 

Aramis interrupted. “ _He_  is here, and happens to be conscious, so please, Madame...” 

 

Louise cut him short. "You still need someone to put the salve on your back.” She cast a meaningful glance at Porthos.

 

“Medics are the worst patients," muttered the dark skinned musketeer.

 

_This one is the worst possible...yet I will still be thankful for every day that he is by my side._

 

She smiled in agreement.

 

They prepared to set off, Louise bid them farewell. “Be safe, and come visit whenever you can. My home is your home. Remember that.” She smiled warmly.

 

“Thank you, Madame," they whispered. Aramis surprised her by bowing and kissing her hand. 

 

Porthos was grateful for the distraction, as he could feel tears forming in his eyes.

 

As they did every time someone freely offered him their home.

 


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance's POV

Constance

 

“So, how do you like your lover now? He is not so handsome right now, is he?”

 

Constance shook her head. She was not sure how to react. She did not want to make their situation worse than it already was, but she could not avert her eyes from Athos. The musketeer was lying on the ground, curled up in a ball. He was vomiting up bile that was mixed with blood. He struggled to remain silent as the poison continued to ravage his body.

 

She spoke up, ignoring the silent plea in Athos’ eyes.

“What do you hope to achieve by torturing him?!”  

 

_Forgive me, Athos. We are at his mercy. And he has no concept of what that word means. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing my fear._

The man was gloating now. “Do you know he is a noble? Or rather, he was--before he killed his wife, then fled in panic from his lands. He is nothing but a coward."

 

She knew the truth, and showed no reaction.

 

“Do you not ever imagine what it would be like to be bedded by a true noble?”

 

“Believe me, if I had such needs, I would choose someone who is not a criminal.”

 

_He will claim me. I should be afraid. I can do nothing to defend myself… but my fear fuels my anger. I refuse to appear weak! I want him to look at me and see nothing but fury on my face. He is torturing my friend--one of the most decent, honorable men I have ever met!_

Their captor approached her, and took her face in his hands. The pain of her burns took her breath away for a moment.

 

“You were quite pretty… but now that is all in the past. I don’t think Athos will want you any more…”

 

Constance could not answer, for fear that she her voice would turn into a moan. He hit her hard across the face. The flare of pain from her wound was excruciating. She bit her lips so hard that she tasted blood.

 

“So, you’re trying to be tough. Let's see what we can do about that." He released his hold on her, and focused his attention on Athos. He kicked him hard, then again...and again.

 

“You are a coward!" shouted Constance. "Only when he is wounded, poisoned, and shackled do you have the courage to approach him! How brave! My comte, or perhaps I should call you a prince?”

 

On her lips, those titles sounded like the worst sort of invectives.

 

“Shut up!” he yelled, furious.

 

_It worked…now he is focused on me._

She tried to brace herself for the blows which were to come. After a particularly vicious kick to her stomach, she nearly lost consciousness.

 

“I hope you were carrying his bastard," he growled. "If so, you have just lost it.”

 

Despite her tears of pain, Constance had to hold back a smile when she realized how little their captors knew about them.

 

“And now, madame, you will beg for my forgiveness. You will apologize to me for your behavior.” He turned back to Athos and lifted his head. The musketeer's eyes were half-closed, and he appeared barely conscious. The bandit held a knife directly under Athos' eye.

 

"So, do you think he really needs both of his eyes?” he asked. From his voice, she guessed that he was smirking under his mask.

 

“Please…” she whispered, now terrified.

 

“I am waiting to hear your apology. Now!”

The knife made a small cut on the delicate skin around Athos' eye. A few drops of blood trickled down his cheek.

 

“I… I… am deeply sorry for my improper words to you, Sir," she stammered.

 

“You will do anything to earn my forgiveness…”

 

“Yes…” Her voice was barely audible.

 

“Say it! The whole sentence!"

 

“I will do anything to earn your forgiveness, Sir.”

 

She hated herself.

She hated their tormentor.

She wanted nothing more than to watch him die. 

She wanted more than anything to kill him.

 

He spoke up again. “Are you important to the Queen?”

 

“I am only one of many ladies-in-waiting....but obviously there will be a search party sent out to find me.”

 

“So, the musketeers will be sent to rescue you… I like that idea.”

 

She froze. Everything she said was only making things worse! She had been so stupid to think that she was as skilled as the musketeers in this sort of thing…

 

“So, you and Athos will be the cause of their deaths. Perfect! They will die for their drunkard and his whore.”

 

Constance bit her lip in order to hold back her words. She did not want to provoke the man any further when he was holding a knife near her friend’s eye.

 

“Now--you’ll beg me to bed you, commoner!" growled the bandit.

 

“Constance, no!” whispered Athos. He tried, but failed, to make his voice sound like it usually did when he gave orders.

 

The knife cut deeper into his skin, and more blood flowed from the wound.

 

“I… I will…”  Constance choked on the words.

 

“No! I am a dead man!" the musketeer gasped.

 

“If she is good enough in bed to earn you an antidote, you may not necessarily die. So...I am listening.” The bandit glanced at Constance, waiting for her to speak. 

 

“Will you grant me the favor of spending a night in your bed, my lord?”

 

The words were not so hard to say, as they reminded her of all the times she had bantered with the musketeers. They were so abstract--so false.

 

He released Athos, who slumped back onto the ground, his eyes full of unspeakable dread. Constance avoided his gaze, and kept her own eyes cast down.

 

Their captor approached Constance. She looked up, and saw cruelty in his blue eyes.  Her heart was beating wildly, and she was furious at herself. However, before he could touch her there was a nervous knock at the door. He opened the door, then stepped out of the cellar, closing the door behind him.

 

“Constance!" hissed Athos. "What are you doing?! Are you insane?!”

 

“I am perfectly sane. He is a madman. He will mutilate you just for the fun of it. I will do whatever it takes to stop him.”

 

“He will kill us!”

 

“If he does, then nothing I do matters. If our friends save us, it will matter quite a bit for you to have both of your eyes. Athos, I am not a maiden whose reputation will be ruined, so....I don't care. As to the complications… after a few years of marriage, I am still childless. And before you say that it may be my husband's fault, I am going to tell you that if I were a normal woman, I should have already been pregnant with d’Artagnan's child…” Even now, she felt the heat on her cheeks.

 

_But if the worst were to happen, there are some herbs which could be useful... I have no idea what they are, but I hope Aramis does… or any herbswoman in the nearby village…_

 

“But--”

 

“Listen to me, Athos...if I had to choose between being raped and watching you being whipped, I am afraid I wouldn’t sacrifice myself. But I will do everything I can to save you from losing an eye--or from being maimed in any other way. I only ask one thing of you – when we are freed, I want to speak to d’Artagnan first.”

 

**_When_ ** _not if…_

“And if I say that I forbid you to sacrifice yourself?”

 

“I will tell you that you have no right to give me orders.”

 

The musketeer closed his eyes, clearly defeated.

 

“Captain Tréville and his men should already have returned. He will find us.”  She kept talking in order to try to distract Athos from his pain. Although the man tried to remain stoic, she could clearly see that he was suffering.

 

His eyes became glazed with fever. He began to shiver, which only increased his torment by worsening the pain.

 

“It is my fault that you were taken. I should have thrown you out of my room…”

 

“I brought you the drugged food. So I am fault as well," responded Constance. “Athos, when I asked d’Artagnan to teach me how to fight… I had already killed a man in order to save him. I had posed as a prostitute to help clear your name… I… knew that if something went wrong, I could end up as part of the collateral damage… Still… I would rather live a full, short life than…to just exist through a long, empty one…” She trailed off, and stared at Athos, her eyes full of compassion.

 

The musketeer met her gaze, and she choked back a sob. “I cannot even take your hand… I cannot even touch you in order to try to help you…”  The way they were bound made it impossible for them to have any physical contact.

 

“I know," he murmured. “Constance, you must know that I don't blame you."

 

“If you are trying to say some sort of farewell, just stop right there!  I doubt that he gave you something that would kill you right away. I think he is the sort of man that lives to see people suffer."

 

She closed her eyes for a moment. The burns on her face were terribly painful. But it was only pain. Her real fear was for Athos.  She was terrified when she saw the musketeer lying almost motionless. Only his labored breathing told her that he was still alive.

 

“Don’t leave me Athos… Please…” she whispered.

 

The door opened, and she froze.  A masked man entered, and Constance shivered slightly. He was smaller than his leader.

 

He stopped and stared at them. At her.

 

_Great… so he has decided that I don't deserve his attention…_

The man knelt next to her, his eyes full of shock.

“Who did this to you?!” he muttered, his fingers hovering above her wounds.

 

“Your commander," Constance whispered.

She thought that she saw something like compassion in his eyes.

“Please, give my friend some water!" she pleaded.

 

The man stared at her for a moment, then nodded, and moved over to Athos. He lifted the musketeer's head, and touched a water skin to his bloodied lips.

“Drink," he murmured.

 

The musketeer obeyed. Constance had the impression that he was too weak to protest.

 

“What does he want from you?” the man asked her.

 

“Your leader?" Her voice was bitter. "He wants me to beg him to rape me.”

 

“WHAT?!" The man became agitated. "If you are a Spanish spy, you deserve to die, but you do not deserve that sort of treatment. He has gone insane!”

 

“Are you sure that this man is your Captain?" gasped Athos.

 

The man cast a shocked glance at him.

“He has to be!” he whispered.

 

“Help us… Please!" begged Constance.

 

He appeared indecisive, and remained silent for a few moments. It seemed as if he was about to refuse, but then his eyes strayed once more to her injured face.

“I will try.”

 

“Is there any antidote you can give him?” Constance asked urgently.

 

“No… I’m sorry…”

 

“But what will happen to him?”

 

“I am not sure. But I don’t think it will kill him. I must go now.”

 

Her eyes followed him until he closed the door behind him. He was still their enemy, but he had a sense of honor. He was her hope. Their hope.

 

 


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos' POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extreme Athos’ whump for my wonderful beta Riversidewren and faithful reader Helensg.

Athos

He tried to control his breathing in order not to succumb to another wave of nausea. In vain. The stomach spasms wracked his body. He could not even keep down the small amount of water that he had been given.

The taste of blood made the nausea even worse. 

  
He could not hold back the moan that escaped when he desperately tried to take in a breath. He could swear that there was a red-hot blade buried in his abdomen, tormenting him with its slow, steady movements. This image did nothing to help him.

Another round of nausea. It was mostly dry heaving now.

He could not scream. He could not torture Constance further. He could not appear so weak in front of such a courageous woman.

He was so cold. Sweat was dripping from his face. Each shiver only renewed his agony. The pain slowly closed upon him, enveloping his body in its tight, awful embrace. Nothing else was left.

_Anne was looking at him, her green eyes full of fascination._

_"You're dying. It is an-- interesting experience to watch you die. I'm trying to understand exactly what I am feeling right now..."_

_Athos forced himself to remain silent. He did not want to open his mouth. He knew that if he did, he would scream--and he would never be silent again._

_Anne watched him like a cat observing a mouse. She ran her tongue over her upper lip, then tilted her head, observing him closely. So gorgeous. So cruel._

He felt something cold on his face. It elicited a new shiver, which only served to another level of torment. He tried to pull away.

"Drink!" 

He recognized an order when he heard it, but whimpered in protest. Someone had covered his nose. When he parted his lips to catch a breath, liquid fire was poured into his mouth. He choked, then coughed, trying to expel the liquid from his mouth.  He could not get rid of it all, and was forced to swallow some.

Whatever the liquid was, he could not keep it down. Another round of vomiting took away the last bit of consciousness from him.

Someone was crying. He heard his name whispered through sobs--sobs full of fear and anger. A pleading voice.

"Constance?" he rasped.

Memories flooded his brain. And they were too much. He wanted to escape from the awareness of what had happened to her.

Why was it that all the people who was important to him were so eager to sacrifice for themselves for him?! It was so wrong!

"Athos... don't leave me!" she begged.

It felt so wrong to hear proud Constance pleading.

"H're," he muttered.

The door creaked open.

"You really are a mess, Athos. I am very upset with you."  The sardonic voice of the bandits' leader penetrated into his foggy brain.

He feigned unconsciousness, but it was not far from the truth.

"You have killed him!" Constance's voice was full of fury.

Something hit him in the stomach, forcing a cry from his lips.

"Wake up! I want you to join our little entertainment."

When he was finally able to speak, Athos growled, "Leave her alone!" 

 He opened his eyes to see the masked man gripping Constance's face. He realized that there was pure hatred in her gaze.

"Have you already forgotten your promise to be nice?" inquired the bandit.  
"No," she choked.  
"Good. Then bid farewell to your lover!"

He dragged her out of the room, and slammed the door. Athos' struggle to free himself was completely ignored.

He continued his futile battle against the shackles,  panic fueling his waning strength. Tears were flowing down his face. He had failed to save his friend--his brother's sweetheart.

He heard a muffled shot, and his heart almost stopped. After a few minutes, the door opened, and Constance was shoved inside. She curled up on the floor, blood slowly dripping from her split lip.

"Constance?" he gasped.

She sat up, then cautiously stood up. She took a few steps, then knelt near Athos.

He felt her cold hands on his face.  
"You're burning up... Athos, don’t blame yourself! Nothing has happened. He has not touched me..."

Her hands were shaking.  
"One of his man stood up in my defense. He shot him... but told the other one to bring me back here." Her voice trailed off, and she gently wiped the sweat from his face.

“Do you want some water?”

“No," he croaked.

The last thing he wanted was to throw up again.

He felt something cold on his forehead.

He hoped for a moment of reprieve, but then he shivered, and the pain in his abdomen exploded again. He dimly heard Constance’s voice, but he could not understand her words.

He wanted to let go--to seek relief in death. But he could not die, and leave her alone with their captors.

He heard his name being called over and over again. Somehow it served to anchor him. He tried to focus on her voice, so as not to fall in the abyss, where his demons were lurking for him. Every time he failed to concentrate on Constance’s voice, he saw Anne green eyes, and her seductive smile.

 Suddenly he understood Constance’s words.  “It’s killing him! Please--you have to help him!"

“Madame… I have no idea how to ease his pain. I am sorry.” The other voice was kind, but sad.

“Listen to me! Your commander gave him the poison. You must know the antidote!”

Athos felt nothing but pride as he listened to her berate the bandit.

“I don’t think there is one, Madame…’

”So am I supposed just to sit here and watch him die?!” The despair in her voice was heartbreaking.

_I don’t deserve to be grieved like this. I don’t deserve to be loved like this…_

“Our Captain wants you to be known that your friends are as good as dead. He has planned a trap for them… and you will be alive to hear the explosion which will take their lives. After that, he will most likely kill you. I am sorry, Madame”

“Help us!”

“Madame, I cannot. The only thing I can do is offer you some comfort. I cannot warn the musketeers. I cannot help you to escape. You both serve Spanish Queen. You are our enemies.”

“She is a French Queen!”

“Her brother is the King of Spain.”

“That means nothing!”

“You are a musketeer’s lover. You do not know the meaning of brotherhood. It is  impossible for her to truly be French. How can the man she was forced to marry be more important to her than her brother? We understand your Queen's loyalty to Spain. Unfortunately, in order to save France, she must die."

Silence reigned in the room.

“What about the Dauphin?” asked Athos. He was surprised at how raspy his voice sounded, but he needed to know.

“He will be raised as a proper French King, free from his mother's influence.”

Constance broke in. “Your commander wants to kill him!" 

_Thank you. That is exactly what I wanted to say, but I am too weak to take part in your conversation. At least the pain has diminished enough that I am able to understand the words._

“Our captain… has changed. It’s strange. I don’t like it.”

“Have you ever seen him without a mask?”

“Yes.”

“Was it before or after he started to act strangely?”

“After. I first noticed it when I found him wounded after Athos’ escape. He was furious.”

“What does he look like?”

His voice turned cold. “I am not that stupid. Enough talk! Eat. I don’t think he can stomach any food, but you should give him some water.”

Athos felt a cup pressed to his lips.

“Drink!" Constance pleaded.

He was thirsty. He took a small sip, then immediately threw up. Constance held him as the dry heaves tormented his body, triggering another round of abdominal pain that was almost unbearable. He tossed in agony in her arms.

He felt himself slipping away, and eagerly embraced unconsciousness, which finally muted his pain.

 


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treville's POV

Tréville

They were chasing shadows. Each lead they had seemed to be a dead end. Tréville had a sinking feeling that they had been purposely misled. Three days had been wasted.

Each day brought the regiment closer to its end. Louis was furious with their incompetence. And this time he was terribly right.

"A rider is approaching!" called Philippe. 

The Musketeers changed their formation slightly, readying themselves for an attack.

The rider pulled his horse to a stop. His silhouette stood out from the mist that hovered on the small hill. It was definitely a scout.

The Musketeers continued forward. Tréville was painfully aware how easily they could be seen on the road in the light of the sunset. The whole day had been rainy and foggy, and it seemed unfair that the sun appeared to be working against them. They were a perfect target. Tréville waited for the rider to withdraw, but he spurred his horse into the gallop, heading in their direction.

Tréville and Philippe rode towards him. It was then that the Captain recognized the rider.

_D'Artagnan!!_

_Where are Aramis and Porthos?!_

"Report!"  he ordered gruffly when they met the lad.

'Sir, we talked to the healer. It turns out that his daughter was held captive in order to force him to cooperate. Aramis and Porthos freed the girl, and took her and her mother to Epi-sur-Esonne. Aramis insisted that the healer must be questioned thoroughly about his draughts by Athos. The man and his children are following me in the wagon."

Tréville nodded. He hid his relief.

_I am getting too old for this. I care too much about these men._

"We will make the last part of the journey together."

D'Artagnan went to the wagon to tell the herbalist to join them. Tréville could see the Gascon's relief. It was not a simple task to protect the party from a potential attack. Especially by himself, surrounded by a bunch of children.

When they set out onward on their journey, Tréville asked d'Artagnan about the details of their mission. He sensed that the boy was hiding something.

"What's wrong?" he asked

"It's not my story to tell," murmured the Gascon.

"Then whose story is it?"

D'Artagnan remained silent.   
"Come on, boy! I am worried about them."

"Nightmares." replied d'Artagnan tersely. "Both of them."

Tréville sighed. He was not surprised, but he knew that they had to deal with it on their own.

"Are they aware of each other's problem?" the Captain asked.

"Yes."

"Is this the first time you've seen Porthos have a nightmare?"

"Yes.... of all of us, he has always seemed to be the one immune to such things," replied d'Artagnan hesitantly.

"No, not after coming so close to losing Aramis. It triggers bad dreams," murmured the Captain.

He was reminded all too well of what had happened after Savoy.

_Aramis was still unconscious. His chances of survival were decreasing dramatically with each passing hour. The marksman already looked like a corpse. His face was deathly pale, and his lips were tinged blue. The only change was that his skin, previously as cold as ice, was now extremely hot. Porthos kept vigil at his side. The man had refused to leave his friend from the moment they had found him in that damned forest. But even his endurance was fading, and he was starting to fall asleep. However each time he closed his eyes for a moment, he awoke with a jerk, then instinctively checked on Aramis, his eyes full of panic. Sometimes he called out his name, his voice full of desperation._

_  
"Every time I close my eyes, I see him dead." Porthos' confession had shaken the Captain._

_  
Aramis' path back to consciousness was through the nightmares. The only thing that seemed to soothe him was Porthos’ solid presence. Everyone was sure that Porthos was sacrificing his own health to care for his wounded comrade. But Tréville knew that just as Aramis needed Porthos' touch and warmth in order to sleep peacefully, the dark skinned musketeer needed to feel the medic's breath in order to rest._

"Aramis will help him."  Tréville abruptly summed up his musings, startling d'Artagnan.

The Gascon did not look convinced, and the Captain sighed. It was obvious that he did not believe that the medic could help anyone in his current state. They needed to talk.

The musketeers rode through the gate to the Palace gardens. The guards looked very uneasy at the sight of them.

  
"What's wrong?" asked Tréville tersely.

"There was an attack three nights ago. The masked bandits came. And... they killed five of us, and wounded six more..." the guard reported.  When the royal court was in Paris now, there was only a skeleton crew left there--young, inexperienced Red Guards. 

  
"Where is your commander?" Tréville growled.

"Dead."

"Who is in charge now?"

"Franc Meuvier, sir."

"Where can I find him?!"  Tréville did not even try to sound patient.

"In the guard room, sir."

The captain nodded. He left his horse in the care of the stable boys, and nodded at d'Artagnan.

"Find Constance, and ask her to help set up the herbalist and his family with proper accommodations. By the way - what is his name?"

"Marc," answered d'Artagnan.

"We'll meet at Athos' room." Tréville left.

A short time later, he entered the guard room. A young man immediately stood up, his hand on his rapier. He relaxed his stance a bit when he recognized the musketeer leader, but turned pale.

"What exactly happened here?" asked Tréville.

"The food was drugged, sir. Many of us were put into a deep sleep. Those were the lucky ones, as they remained unscathed-- but all those who tried to fight.... were killed or wounded."

"Have you been able to identify who drugged you?!"

"Yes, sir. We detained one of the cooks."

"Do you know who the attack was aimed at?"

"Yes. Your lieutenant, and Madame Constance."

_Madame Constance... she does everything possible to avoid being called by her husband's name._

 Suddenly the words spoken by the soldier hit him. "Are they alive?"

"They... have been taken, sir."

Tréville did not know how he managed to remain calm. One of his best men-- and the trusted friend of the Queen--were in enemy hands. He refused to allow images of their possible fate to flood into his brain. He needed to find the Gascon. Fast.

He ran across d'Artagnan when he left the room. The boy was deathly pale, his eyes full of fear.

"The room has been torn apart!" 

"They took them," the Captain said slowly. "Constance and Athos."

"No! NO!" The boy shook his head violently, not wanting to believe it.

"Come. We are to interrogate the person who drugged the food."

Pale and clearly shaken, the Gascon obeyed. Tréville tried not to think about how slim the chance was that Athos and Constance would survive.

They found the sullen cook locked up in a room. He was a tall man in his thirties, and he looked at them with pure hatred.

"You drugged the food," stated Tréville.

"No!" insisted the cook. "I was cooking that day, but I did not add anything harmful to the food."

"The vial found in your wardrobe tells a different story."

"Everyone knows who cooks," answered the man defensively. "Someone could easily have put the drug in my things to cast suspicion on me." 

"Everyone knows that people disappear from the Palace all the time." D'Artagnan's voice was low and threatening. "It's a really dangerous place. For instance, one can fall out the window. There are nasty rose bushes outside. Those thorns can cut deep into the body. And broken branches can pierce the lungs. I am not as educated in medicine as my friend, but I can assure you that slowly drowning in your own blood is not very appealing. But on second thought, perhaps we can just start with drowning."

_The boy spends too much time with Aramis..._

The Gascon eyed a bucket of water. He seized the man, and forced him to his knees, grasping his hair firmly.

"Captain!! How can you just stand by and watch your man torture an innocent?!" The cook was screaming now, and was clearly terrified.

"Quite easily, now that I know that one of my other men is probably being tortured," Tréville informed him coldly.

D'Artagnan lowered the prisoner's head closer to the water. The man protested, then inhaled a bit of water, and started to cough.

"Stop!!" he cried, when he could finally speak again. "I did it... I did it..."

"Why?"

"I was ordered to --they threatened me!"

_A lie_ , thought Tréville.

"And what were you supposed to do next?" inquired d'Artagnan.

"I cannot tell you! They will kill me!"

"Do you know the difference between thinking about death, and actually dying?", asked the Gascon.

"I have to show up tomorrow at the market in Thomery!" the cook gasped. "The information will be waiting for me there."

"Where exactly?"

"Behind the butcher's stall!"

"And what are you supposed to be looking for?"

“A basket with young rabbits...and further orders for me.”

“Well then...you will pick up that basket, then give it to us," ordered the Captain.

To be honest, he did not expect much to come of it, but they had no other leads. He was quite sure that Athos and Constance were still alive. If the bandits had not needed for them to be alive, they would have killed them during the raid on the palace. It was a much easier way to deal with a dangerous opponent.

Constance might be used to in order to capture the Queen. He knew he should send a man to warn Her Majesty. However, he had no soldier to spare at the moment. It was better to focus on rescuing Constance instead.

Tréville could not sleep that night. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw his lieutenant dead...or d’Artagnan grieving over Constance’s lifeless body. He got up, and went to the window, staring at the darkness outside. The wind was howling through the empty gardens. But he could swear he saw some movement there. He took his weapon, and went downstairs, slipping out into the darkness. It was then that he heard two men talking.

“Grottes des Renards," someone muttered. “Take all the herbs you can.”

“Yes," came the answer.

The conspirators separated, and Tréville regretted that he had not heard more. He followed one of the men, who proved to be a palace gardener. It was quite easy to catch him. After a few threats, Tréville knew that Grottes des Renards was a medieval building where the King could rest during the hunt. It was not far from the monastery which had almost become Athos’ last mission. It seemed very probable that this place was the True Musketeers' headquarters. However, the Captain was sure that bandits had many places to hide themselves... and their prisoners. The gardener, however, suggested that someone was being held captive there.

_D’Artagnan overheard another conversation...a conversation which led them to the ruins of the monastery. This may be a trap--but even if it is a trap, I have to try to save Athos and_ _Constance_ _…I owe them that much._

He returned to bed but could not sleep. He lay on his back, staring into the darkness. The memories of the Savoy massacre slowly took over his mind. He saw the bloodied snow, and his dead musketeers scattered on the frozen ground. He shook his head, and got up. He saw no reason to give in to the haunting memories. Nothing could erase his guilt. He did not deserve Aramis’ forgiveness.

He spent the rest of the night wandering through the dark palace. When the nobles were gone, the silence reigned throughout the halls.

At dawn, they rode to Thommery.

Philippe and d’Artagnan followed the cook, who went to the butcher stall. Tréville observed them at a distance. The cook bought some meat, and then received a basket with rabbits. He returned to his wagon afterwards, and did exactly as musketeers had asked. However, the Captain was still uneasy.

In the wagon, the basket was taken away from the prisoner. Noiret approached Tréville, his manner grave.

“We found a vial in the basket..along with an order to make sure you drink it, sir." His voice was grim.

Tréville sighed. He had hoped for at least a small bit of useful intelligence, but this information was completely worthless. He already knew that the “True Musketeers” wanted to get rid of him.

Morineau came to him. “Sir, I heard someone talking about Grotte de Renards. He said that they needed to take the herbalist there.”

_Grottes des Renards. Again._

The Captain had to entrust the herbalist to the Red Guards, as he needed all his musketeers with him. He hoped that Aramis and Porthos would join them the next morning.

“D’Artagnan, Morineau-- you will ride out to meet Porthos and Aramis, and then you will join us near the Grotte des Renards. Try to make it to the monastery ruins by dawn tomorrow. Godspeed!”

He watched as his musketeers spurred their horses into a gallop, leaving the village in a spray of mud. He hoped they would manage to meet the other two men-- and that they would arrive at the monastery in time to prepare to launch an attack.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riversidewren, thank you!


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for more rare updates. I am afraid that with my holiday plans they may become even less frequent. Rest assured – I intend to finish this story. It might only take more time than I have previously thought. Enjoy the new chapter!

Porthos

 

They left Epi-sur-Esonne. The weather was a little better, but the roads were still muddy. They rode as fast as they dared under those conditions.

 

Porthos felt he needed to be back at the palace. He could not quite explain this nagging feeling, but he knew that he would calm down the minute he saw his brothers alive and well. Judging from Aramis' behavior, the marksman felt the same way.

 

They stopped only to give a brief respite to their horses. Aramis handed Porthos some bread and cheese that Louise had given them. 

 

“Should I check on your wounds?" asked Porthos.

 

Aramis shook his head. "I'm not taking my doublet off out here. It's definitely too cold.”

 

“Ah, I’ve forgotten that you need a nice room and a fireplace to change. But still, it does seem to help you." His voice was a bit challenging.

 

“It does," agreed Aramis. He sighed. “I would like to able to experience life for a while in a completely healed state. I really miss the times when the only pain I felt was after sparring with you.”

 

“So do I, my brother," murmured Porthos.

 

Aramis stared off into the distance for a long moment. “Porthos…?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Despite everything, I am glad to still be alive."  He spoke softly, as if he were afraid that his words were inappropriate. He sounded so vulnerable--and so young.

 

Porthos squeezed his arm in response.  “You should be, brother." 

 

He gave him a brief hug, and Aramis leaned into his embrace. Porthos liked this proof of trust, but would have preferred that his friend show a little reluctance. Aramis leaning into his arms like this meant that he was emotional, and in need of support. The dark skinned musketeer desperately wanted his brother to be in a far more normal mood.

 

They mounted their horses, and continued their journey. Porthos knew that they would still be riding when it became dark. They had some torches prepared.

 

“Someone is approaching," murmured Aramis. 

 

Porthos looked at him in surprise. He had not seen or heard anything.

“Where?”

 

“From the front. Two riders. We’ll see them again when they reach that hill.”

 

Porthos said nothing more. He was amazed that his friend could see anything in the dim evening light.

 

It did not take them long to see the riders again.

“D’Artagnan?!”  A shocked Aramis spurred his horse into a gallop. Porthos followed him, but Vent could not  catch up with Orage over the short distance they had to travel.

 

They pulled to a stop near the Gascon and Morineau. Both musketeers appeared grim, and Porthos felt a wave of fear for Athos.

 

“We are heading to Grotte des Renards. There is a possibility that Athos and Constance are being held there.” D’Artagnan's voice wavered when he spoke of his mentor and his sweetheart.  "The Captain wanted us to meet up with you, and have you join us--if you are not injured."

 

“We are ready to fight," replied Aramis. He was very pale.

D’Artagnan nodded, then filled them in on what had happened.

 

Porthos cursed loudly. The situation was dire. He sensed that Tréville was right – they probably were heading into a trap. But what choice did they have? Should they just give up trying to find their lieutenant and the Queen’s favorite lady-in-waiting?! Should they not try to do everything they could to save their brother and their… sister?

 

_Sister. Because she is the sister you never had. She cares for you, and you are ready to do whatever it takes to protect her._

 

They rode on in silence. Porthos could not banish the images that appeared in his mind of their friends being tortured and humiliated. One glance at Aramis told him that the medic must have been imagining the same thing.

 

The next day, when they finally joined the others, the Captain gave them a few hours of sleep while the other musketeers did some reconnaissance. However, Porthos could not sleep. He stared into the darkness, gently stroking Aramis' hair. The marksman lay curled in his arms. For once, insomnia was not an issue. His body badly needed rest after a whole day of riding.

 

It was after dark when the Captain gathered them all together.

 

“There is a high probability that Constance and Athos are being held captive there. It appears that there are not too many guards. However, the building has several caves. The prisoners are likely being kept there. I am quite sure that a trap had been laid, so if any of you prefer to wait here rather than…”

 

The men did not let him finish his thought. They all displayed their readiness to go along on this high-risk rescue mission. There was no denying that it was suicidal. Porthos was painfully aware of this.

 

“All for one," murmured Porthos. The response was immediate. Seven hands made a pile as they recited their credo.

 

Porthos was hit hard by the lack of Athos’ voice. He glanced at Aramis. The marksman closed his eyes briefly, and the dark skinned musketeer could see new lines of pain on his friend's face.

 

“We will save them!” he vowed, looking at his brother.

 

They approached the building, which was situated under a big rock. The structure seemed very small, but it was only an illusion. There were a few other ruins scattered along the rocky area, although those appeared to be unoccupied. The whole complex was built on a hill with very steep slopes. With its location, it resembled a small fortress.

 

The musketeers stealthily cut the distance between them and the building. So far, they seemed to be undetected. 

 

Porthos rendered the first guard unconscious with a well-aimed punch, while Aramis took care of the other one. Both men dropped to the ground without a sound. The two musketeers entered the building. It seemed empty.

 

Something felt terribly wrong. Resistance was non-existent. They met one sleepy man, who was easily disarmed.

 

Porthos glanced at Aramis, who was partially concealed behind a ruined wall. He seemed undecided as to what to do next. They had expected a fierce fight.

 

“We should find the cave," muttered Porthos.

 

Aramis started to nod. Suddenly, his eyes went wide.

 

“Down!!!” he screamed.

 

Porthos tried to obey, but before he could, he felt as if a giant hand had grabbed him. He was thrown against the wall, which was not so far away. It was only then that he heard an explosion tear through the night air. He fought to regain his breath, desperately trying not to lose consciousness.

 

He did not know how long it took him to get on his feet. When he did, he felt complete panic. A huge rock now covered the place where Aramis had been standing.

 

“ARAMIS!!!???” he shouted. He vaguely heard himself screaming, but he did not pay attention to it. He rushed towards the rock. Aramis’ hat was partially lodged under it. The jaunty pheasant feather had been crushed.

 

 Porthos tried to move the rock, but it was too heavy even for his strength.

 

“I need help!" he yelled. "Aramis is trapped under this rock!!!”

 

D’Artagnan and Philippe answered his plea. He saw sheer terror in d’Artagnan’s face when the boy understood why he wanted so desperately to move the fallen rock. Judging from their slow movements and the blood covering their clothes, both musketeers had been injured.

 

They tried. They gave it everything they had… but the boulder remained immovable.

 

“Porthos!” The dark skinned musketeer felt a hand on his arm. "If he is under it, he is dead." Tréville’s voice was soft and sad, but Porthos felt as if each word the Captain uttered was stabbing him in the gut.

 

He collapsed against the rock.

“No! No! No!” he shouted, punching the unyielding boulder.

“We will use this boulder as his gravestone," murmured the Captain.

 

Porthos wanted to punch him, but he could not move.

 

In his mind, he could see Aramis’ silhouette...his cautious, yet relaxed, stance...those marvelous brown eyes which would never look at him again.  

 

“No… no… no…” he cried, his head hitting the boulder. He ignored the blood trickling into his eyes.

 

He needed Aramis to shout at him---to tell him that he was an idiot. He needed Aramis’ arms to encircle him. He needed to hear soft platitudes. He needed Aramis to awake him from his nightmare.

 

All he heard was d’Artagnan screaming Aramis' name. The Gascon was still searching for their brother.

 

Porthos held his breath, waiting for a reply--for mischievous teasing, urgent questions fired off about their injuries, or even a groan of pain.

But no answer came.

 

They had lost Aramis.

They had lost Aramis.

They had lost Aramis.

  
There would be no dawn.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I run for a cover?
> 
> Riversidewren, thank you!


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance's POV

Constance  


She had lost track of time. She had not planned to sleep, but she could not really be angry at herself. After all, she needed all the strength she could muster.  The wounds on her arm and head were throbbing. She tore off a piece of her skirt, poured some water on it, and started to clean the wounds. An infection was the last thing she needed.

She stopped when she heard the door open. She braced herself when a man came in. She recognized him as the one who had left them food and water.

"You should use wine to clean it," he muttered, and placed a waterskin in front of her. She watched him closely, assessing her likelihood of success in a fight against him. With some luck, she would probably be able to disarm him. But what would she do then? Even if she were to have a chance to flee, there was no way she could take Athos with her. Still.... maybe she could somehow convince the bandit to help her.

No...that was not realistic.  She glared at the masked man, a challenge in her eyes. She would not show him her fear.

"You are in luck," he said. "Our Captain has left."

"So, are you going to help to escape?"  Although it she knew it was ridiculous, she still held out a faint ray of hope.

 "No."

"Do you really believe that I am a spy for Spain?"

"A good French woman would never know how to fight."

"I am not a good woman. I may have betrayed my husband with a musketeer, but I would never betray France. Nor would my Queen."

"You should be at home with your children."  


"I have no children. Do you have a wife?"

"No. She died." There was great sadness in his voice. "She died trying to bring our first child into the world. The baby also died."  


"I am sorry." She honestly was. He seemed to sense that, and appeared to be surprised-and uncomfortable.

He abruptly changed the topic. "I need to give your musketeer another dose of poison."

Constance instinctively placed herself in front of Athos.  
"No! It will kill him! Have you been ordered to kill him?"  


"No. Only to give him the poison. Our leader wants him to suffer."  


"Then give it to me instead! Spare him! I beg you!"  


"If I do not give it to him, and you are asked about it...will you tell my Captain that I gave him the poison as directed?"  


"Yes!" she promised, desperately clinging to the hope that she could protect Athos from further harm.

"Very well then. I'll bring you some food and more water."  He left them.

Constance held her breath and watched the door close.

"You should try to escape," whispered Athos.

"And leave you here?" She shook her head.  "No. We are escaping from this place together--or not at all."   She was relieved he was still conscious--and coherent enough to make such a ridiculous suggestion.

"Const..."  


"Hush." She heard the door open, and covered her lips with his hand.

Their captor was true to his word. He brought them food, water, and some bandages.  
Despite Constance's best efforts, he realized that Athos was awake.

He knelt near the musketeer.  
"Why does our leader hate you so much?"  


"No idea...", rasped Athos.  


"Do you know even his name?" asked Constance.  


The man shook his head, and turned to Athos once again.  
"No. But he seems to be obsessed with you--and with that friend of yours, Aramis."

"If your leader conspired against the Crown in the past, perhaps they ruined his plans--or decimated his men--or killed someone from his family. Anything is possible," muttered Constance.

"No... I think it is more about jealousy..... What do you musketeers have that he doesn't?"

"They are on the right side of the law," suggested Constance, grateful that she had something to distract her for the moment.  


"As are all musketeers. No, I think it is something personal."

"But Athos and Aramis did not know each other before they joined the musketeers," murmured Constance.

"Maybe our leader tried to become a musketeer, but failed...and somehow it was connected with these two. Maybe they were all recruits at the same time," suggested the masked man.

"Aramis and I were not recruits at the same time," gasped Athos, who happened to be listening.

"Have you ever made a recommendation to Tréville to reject a recruit?" asked Constance.  


"Aramis has not," replied Athos.

"Maybe our leader wanted to join you in order to become a trio, but you chose Porthos instead," the bandit suggested.  


"No. Porthos and Aramis were already friends by the time I came to the garrison," whispered Athos.

"It would be impossible for our leader to feel anything like envy towards Porthos. He despises him due to the color of his skin.", the bandit said after a while.  


"Idiot!" spat Constance. "Was he always like that?"  


"No. He was very different when I started working with him two years ago," the man said hesitantly.  "Even his voice seemed different then."

"Then it is not him!! Come on!"  Constance was livid. "You have allowed a stranger--maybe even an enemy--to become your leader. This is insane!!  Surely someone must have seen his face. Someone must be able to identify him!"  


"No... all the men who were close to him have died over the past twelve months." There was trepidation in his voice now.  


"Please--Let us go." Her voice was soft and pleading.  


"Even if it was a question of personal vengeance, and not a question of the safety of France, I will not risk my life for you."

Constance felt her hope fading.   


He looked at her. "Eat. Rest. Take care of him. Don't waste what time you may have left."

Constance finished tending to her injuries. Then she used a damp rag to wash Athos' face.

"You're wasting water," he muttered, his voice barely audible.  


"Doesn't it give you some relief?" she asked quietly.

He did not answer.

_I suppose that means yes._

"Do you think you can keep down a few sips of water?" she asked.

He shook his head weakly.  
"You should try to escape..."  


"I won't leave you."  


"You should."

She gently covered his lips with her fingers.  
"No, Athos. I must admit that I am a coward. I would rather die with you than abandon you."  


"You are not being reasonable," he rasped.  


"I am a musketeer’s lover and sister."  She gave him a sad smile. "Try to sleep. If there is any chance to escape together, we will take it."

He looked at her, exasperation clear on his face. She changed the wet rag on his hot forehead. He closed his eyes, but she knew that fever and pain were preventing him from resting properly. 

She curled up near him, trying to get a bit of rest. Keeping vigil would exhaust her too much. She needed to be in good shape if they were to have even a fighting chance.

She did not know how long she slept. When she woke up, she decided she needed to coax Athos to drink some water.

She checked on his temperature. It seemed high, but stable. 

Constance poured a little water into a cup, and gently stroked Athos' hair in order to wake him up.  


"Athos, I need you to drink some water for me. Please. Try a few sips," she whispered.

He did not protest, so she lifted his head and gave him a little water. He swallowed, then allowed her to lay his head back on the folded cloak. She knew he was fighting a wave of nausea. His breathing was shallow, and more sweat appeared on his pale face. She had started to hope that he would be able to keep it down when he suddenly curled up on his side, overwhelmed by the urge to vomit. He mainly threw up blood, then began to shiver, biting his hand in order to hold back a moan of pain.

Constance gently stroked his hair, hating herself for causing him so much pain. He flinched, pulling away from her touch.

She started to apologize to him, her voice soft and broken.

"Tell d'Artagnan that I was so proud of him... Someday he will be the greatest of us all," he gasped.

"No, Athos! You will tell him yourself!"   


"Take care of them for me....please Constance. They need someone level-headed."

"And you fit this description?" She tried to keep her voice teasing, but tears were running down her cheeks.

He did not answer, but she could tell he was still breathing. She gently washed his face. She saw him lick the moisture from his lips, so she left a few drops of water on them. He responded in the same way. She waited a few minutes, then gave him a bit more.

_He has managed to drink a few sips this way, but only after an hour.. how am I supposed to keep him alive?!_

Their captors came in a few more times. They left them some food and water, but refused to speak with Constance. She did not try to engage them in conversation, as she was afraid that she might anger them, and cause them to hurt Athos.

She felt a spike of fear when four masked men came in.   


"Your time of reprieve has ended," declared the True Musketeers’ leader. Constance felt nothing but hatred when she heard his voice.

She tried to resist when they began to tie her up, but the bandit's leader responded by kicking Athos in the stomach, eliciting a muffled cry of pain from the semiconscious man. The musketeer began to gag, then vomited.

Constance's heart was breaking. She ceased to struggle, and did not resist when they took her out of the room.  She glanced one last time at the suffering musketeer.

"Don't worry," smirked the main bandit. "He will be given more poison, and then he will join you. And when you hear the explosion, it will mean the end of your stupid friends. I hope you have some fun before the wild animals kill you."

She did not react.

_So I am to die..._

They were blindfolded and gagged, and taken outside. Constance felt herself lifted onto a horse. They set out, riding into the chilly night.

She shivered when cold drops fell on her skin. She was surprised to feel herself wrapped in a cloak.

They rode on in silence. Constance tried to pray, but she was not sure if she truly believed in God's mercy. After all, she was a sinner. She had broken her sacred vows.

They finally stopped. She was taken off the horse, and forced to stand against a tree. They tied her to it.  The blindfold was removed, but it was too dark to see much. She guessed that the dark shape near was a man. She felt him put something into her hand. A sharp little blade.

She was still gagged.

_God... Athos will choke if they gave him poison, then left the gag in place.... please grant him mercy...please save him from suffering..._

"At dawn, he will come to check on you", whispered the man with whom she had talked earlier. "I have spared your musketeer the poison. I will try to leave some hint of where to search for you."  He withdrew into the darkness.

They were left alone. It was now pitch dark. She could only guess where Athos was.

She started to work on the rope she was bound with. She cut own fingers several times before she managed to work out the proper angle with which to hold the blade. Her progress was very slow, and her hands became sticky with blood.

The sound of a distant explosion startled her.

_D'Artagnan?!_

She wanted to sob, but forced herself to focus on loosening her bonds.  
  
Her hands felt nearly numb, and the trembling made the task nearly impossible. She put  as much pressure as she could on the weakened rope. Finally, with a muffled cry of pain, she managed to free one hand. Blood trickled down her skin.

She was struggling to free her other hand when she heard something big approaching.

_A wolf?_  
A bear?  
A horse bearing the leader of the bandits?

All she knew was that she preferred the two first options.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologize for my silence here.
> 
> Riversidewren, thank you.


	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

Aramis

_Move!_  
Get away!  
Now! 

His instincts were screaming at him, and he was on his feet before he could even think clearly. He was swaying and stumbling, but still managed to move forward, going from tree to tree in search of support. 

He was dimly aware that several things seemed wrong. His vision was blurring, and sticky hot liquid was pouring down his face and neck... then there was the copper taste in his mouth. It seemed as if some small part of his mind noted all of this information, but the rest of his brain was oblivious.

The marksman stumbled, and failed to regain his balance. He hit the ground harder then he thought possible given his height. Pain flared through his body. He was unable to identify where it was localized, as his whole body screamed in agony. He bit his hand hard, knowing that he must remain silent.

His stomach rebelled when he tasted the muddy leather of his glove, and he vomited. Now he was sure that his head was exploding into a million tiny pieces. The pain made the nausea even worse.

Darkness embraced him, promising him blessed relief.

Pain.  
Relentless throbbing in his head.                                                                                                                             

He  opened his eyes reluctantly.

Darkness.

His heart was beating wildly.

_ Am I blind?!  
Did they gouge my eyes out?! _

He stilled. He knew. He  knew what would happen next.  They would come.                                                                                                                                                    

They would toy with him, laughing at his pain and humiliation.

He reached up and touched his face with his hand. It was then that he realized that he could see his fingers hovering near his eyes.

_ I am not tied up. _

His left hand instinctively sought his weapon. He was reassured when he felt the smooth metal.

_ I am armed.  
I am free. _

_Then what am I doing here?  
Besides experiencing the side effects of a concussion..._

He remembered vaguely that he had been going on a rescue mission. A rescue mission?

_ Athos! They took Athos and Constance. _

_What happened next?_

The pain threatened to overwhelm him, and he closed his eyes. 

Where were his companions? The medic realized that he did not know the answer. A concussion might explain that. 

_ But why didn't they find me? _

Panic started to swell in his heart, but then he dimly recalled the haze of his escape.

_ If I managed to escape from my brothers, I am more talented then I thought. _

Slowly, he got to his knees. Using a tree to support himself, he stood up.

He did not remember the route he had taken to get there. The thought of bending down in order to try to trace his trail made him even more nauseous. His vision was still much too foggy for his liking, and he felt very cold. The shivering only aggravated his headache, as it always did. The wound on his head was still bleeding, and he realized that he needed to do something about that. He took his blue sash, and wound around it his head. His body obeyed him reluctantly, each move eliciting a new explosion of pain.

Every breath hurt. His body was shaking badly, but he finally managed to get his make-shift bandage into place on his head. He hoped that it would stem the bleeding. A bit.

The medic did not know how long he spent just leaning against the tree, trying to assess his injuries. They seemed to be quite extensive.  He had no idea how he had received them.

_ Was I tortured? _

_ Don’t think about it. The last thing you need right now is to start remembering any of the details. _

He heard something rustle near him. He took out his gun and waited, holding his breath. He was shocked when to he saw the dim outlines of a horse just a few feet away from him.

_ So it seems as if my hearing has also been impaired. _

"Who are you?" The rider's voice was urgent.

He raised his head. "Aramis of the King's Musketeers."                                                                                            

If he was to die, he would do so with dignity and courage, even though he was in no fighting condition.

"Aramis? Good." The man dismounted. "Here, take my horse, and ride along the river. You will find Athos and Constance in the clearing up ahead."

"But why....?" whispered the marksman, clearly shocked.

"The cruelty of my leader has become intolerable. But you must hurry up! He plans to be back before dawn to play with them."

_It could be a trap. It probably was a trap_. 

Nevertheless, Aramis braced himself in order to mount the horse. Somehow he was able to manage it, even though his body screamed in protest. His vision dimmed for a moment, but he managed to stay in the saddle.

"Where is the river?" he asked.

"That way." The man pointed ahead. 

The marksman headed in that direction. It was not so easy for him to see the water, but finally he caught sight of the little river--or what could more accurately be called a stream.

Then he saw a clearing ahead. Or, as he could see more of the sky, he assumed it was a clearing.

Aramis dismounted, and nudged his horse forward, using its body as a cover. He was prepared for a fight.

_ I cannot see clearly. My hands are still shaking. I am probably going into shock, but I am ready to fight… I have a feeling that my optimism will kill me one day. _

 He heard a strange sound. When he focused on its source, he saw a human shape.

He let the horse go, and stealthily approached the person.

The silhouette was wearing a skirt...or a cloak...and had long, curly hair.

" Constance ?" he whispered. 

She made a muffled sound, then gasped in shock.

"Aramis! Thank God!" Her voice was hoarse.

He cut the ropes that bound her.  She fell into his arms, sobbing as she clung to his leather.

"Aramis... They poisoned Athos..."

His heart nearly stopped, and he tightened his hold on  Constance. For a  moment, it was her that kept them both upright. 

"Is he...?" He was trembling, and could not finish his question.

"I don't know. He must be somewhere nearby. There he is!"

She pulled him along with her to a nearby tree. He could see a person tied to it.

"Athos?" he whispered.  
His brother's head lolled to the side. The marksman tore off his glove, and cursed when he touched the swordsman's face. His skin was hot and dry.

The Spaniard positioned himself in order to support his friend.   
" Constance ? Untie him--but try not to waste too much rope. We'll need it."

She started to work on the knots.

Aramis took the gag out of Athos’ mouth, and gently stroked his hair. His fingers found the pulse on his friend's neck. It was too fast--and much too faint.

He took his brother's whole weight on him, and was barely able to stand when Athos was finally freed.

"Bring the horse over here!" he gasped. Constance obeyed him.

The world was spinning around Aramis. His lungs needed far more air than he was able to take in with each shallow, painful breath. Cold sweat trickled down his skin.

Constance  quickly returned with his mount. Aramis leaned Athos against the horse's side.

"Constance, I need your help," he rasped.

She hovered nearby, waiting for his instructions. He explained to her how he planned to use the nearby tree in order to get Athos on horseback.

The marksman was astonished by how just speaking a few sentences left him out of breath. 

_ This is not good. I am fading much too quickly… I have to save them. _

Athos moaned when they started to move him.

"Athos! Can you help us, brother?"

"Mhm?"

"We need to get you on the horse."

"I'm fine just where I am," murmured the former comte.

Constance, feeling slightly hysterical, began to giggle.

Finally the swordsman grabbed ahold of the horse's mane. With help, he  managed to sit on the saddle, although he slumped to the side.

"Mount up behind him!" ordered Aramis. "We have no time to lose! I  need to get to a safe place where I can tend to your wounds." 

_ And if I lose consciousness... I hope I will wake up… _

Constance  obeyed. Aramis gave her one of his pistols, as well as his dagger. He used the rope to tie his brother to the horse and saddle. He knew that if Athos started to fall, Constance was not strong enough to keep him on the horse.  Then he took the reins, and started to lead the horse, swaying a little.

They rode on in silence for several minutes. 

"Aramis! You're injured!"  Constance suddenly exclaimed. 

"A bit," he murmured.

He already felt horrible--and only felt worse with each step he took.

"Were you caught up in the explosion?" she asked fearfully.

"Explosion? I don't remember...."

"Our captor told us that he planned to kill the musketeers in an explosion!"

_ Porthos! D'Artagnan! _

_ So I probably sustained my injuries from the blast..that explains a lot. It may be far worse that I thought... _

"Aramis?!"

"I don't know," he mumbled.

“How badly are you injured?” she asked, fear clear in her voice.

Dawn was approaching, and the darkness was finally receding a bit.

_ I must have been unconscious for longer than I thought. _

He shrugged, then bit his lips in order to hold back the moan of pain that the move had elicited.

“Aramis?!” She was obviously not satisfied with his reply.

“I’m fine," he muttered, and continued walking. He knew his that his strength was waning, and he began to doubt that he would be able to get his friends to safety.

“How badly is Athos wounded?” he asked.

“His main problem is the poison,"  Constance  replied.

“What about you?”

“Only a few minor injuries."

_ So there was no reason to stop. Good, because I doubt we’d be able to get Athos back on the horse. _

Aramis desperately tried to keep walking. His head was pounding. The waves of nausea were becoming more frequent. His vision was becoming more and more blurry, with dark spots growing by the second. He was not sure if it was sweat or blood that was cooling his body down. He was shivering now, and each shiver only increased the pain. He was so cold.

And then suddenly, without any warning, his body betrayed him. He fell to the ground. The impact of his fall shot a burst of white hot pain through his body. He curled onto his side, hoping that the pain would finally ease.

“Aramis!” He heard a distant cry, and felt warm hands on his face.

“Aramis! You stupid fool! You're bleeding! God! You’re seriously injured!”

_ Probably worse than you think. Is it just blood loss? Or have my internal injuries finally decided to finish me off? Or maybe the blood loss is due to internal bleeding? _

_ Or maybe it is just exhaustion? It’s hard to make an accurate diagnosis when I am about to pass out... _

“I'm fine,  Constance . Take Athos to safety. To the palace.”  Even to his ears, his voice now sounded less than convincing.

“And what do you expect me to do, you idiot? Just leave you here?!!"  She was almost crying now.

“ Constance , listen to me…”.  He tried to get her to pay attention to him. 

She ignored him, and made a desperate attempt to get him on his feet. He bit his lips, and tried to help her. However, his knees buckled, and his vision dimmed. 

When his sight cleared, he was on his knees, and  Constance  was supporting his weight.

“Leave me!" he gasped.

“You have a head wound...and now you have started to talk nonsense. That is not a good sign!”

“ Constance …” Aramis could barely manage to speak. “I cannot walk any further… Please take care of Athos. When I feel a little better, I will find a place to hide.”

_ What I really mean is a place to die. Ask Porthos not to curse my name… _

“NO!!!”

_ God!  I said it out loud!  _

“ Constance …  Athos needs the herbalist’s help. He is at the palace.”  He was practically breathless now. “You can send someone to find me… I think I might have sustained a fatal wound. So please-go!”  His bloodied fingers squeezed her hand.

“No!  We are not leaving you!"   Athos ’ voice was low, but firm. Aramis felt enormous relief when he heard his leader speak, and glanced up at him.

“Aramis." The swordsman caught his gaze, his blue eyes dulled with pain. "You did not desert me, so don't think for a second that we will leave you."

“Come on, Aramis! I need for you to get on the horse,"  Constance coaxed  him onto his feet once again. This time she leaned him against the side of the animal.  But that was only the beginning. She tried to lift him up.

_ It hurts. Please, stop! _

“Help me, Aramis!" He vaguely heard her pleading with him. 

“Aramis, mount up!" ordered Athos.

It was easier to comply than to argue.  Constance  did her best to help him. He nearly lost consciousness in the process, but he finally sat in the saddle. Waves of pain were ravaging his body.

“Hold still," murmured  Constance , “I need to tie you to the horse.”

He leaned against Athos, and took a bit of comfort from the heat radiating from his friend's body. The heat that Aramis had missed so much.

_ Tell Porthos I am sorry… _

He could not find the strength to say it out loud.

****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are satisfied with the answers about Aramis' fate. Thank you for reading! Your reviews make my day!


	47. Chapter 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d'Artagnan's POV

D'Artagnan

He stared at the rock which had ended Aramis' life-the rock that had become his grave. He could not avert his eyes, even as his soul screamed at him in denial.

_Not Aramis! No, not him! If Aramis were truly dead, the world should have ended as well..._

D'Artagnan had always thought that he would be the first of their quartet to die. He was the one who was the most reckless...the one who still listened to his heart...and the one who was the least experienced. But now he was the one who was still alive, while their marksman lay dead under a ton of rock.

If Aramis had been standing in any other spot, he would have still been alive-as bruised as each of them, but ALIVE. What made it worse was the fact that Aramis had not died because of a reckless stunt he had pulled. He had not died a heroic death. He had merely had the bad luck to end up crushed to death by an enormous rock. They had failed. Aramis was dead, and Athos and Constance were still being held prisoner by a madman.

Porthos was sobbing, cradling Aramis' damaged hat in his arms. From time to time, he had hit his head against the boulder. Blood now covered part of his face.

"Porthos? We have to save Athos!" The Gascon did not mention Constance, as he hoped that their brother's name would have some effect on Porthos. But the big man showed no reaction.

D'Artagnan recalled Aramis' despair when he had believed Porthos was dead. His reaction had been similar. However, while the marksman had been vulnerable and broken, furious grief boiled within Porthos' veins. He was dangerous. And that lethal power should be treated with caution.

The Gascon dug his fingers into Porthos' arm. The older man ignored him, even when d'Artagnan's grip became painful.

"ATHOS NEEDS US!" the boy shouted. But Porthos seemed to be so overwhelmed by grief that he could not comprehend the simple fact that someone wanted him to act.

"Porthos!" Treville barked. The tone of his voice worked. The big man finally lifted his head. Tears flowed unchecked down his cheeks as he gently kissed the pheasant feather.

"He was my brother...and now he is gone," Porthos whispered. Those words broke the Gascon's heart.

D'Artagnan desperately fought back his own tears. Aramis had been the first man in the garrison to accept him. Moreover, he had eagerly embraced him as one of the Inseparables. Although d'Artagnan had been captivated by Athos' personality from the very beginning, Aramis had been the first one to extend the hand of friendship to the Gascon. The Spaniard's easy laugh and joyous enthusiasm had convinced the boy that the garrison might actually become home to him.

The marksman had spent many hours honing d'Artagnan's skill with both pistol and musket. The farm boy knew how to shoot, and his aim was quite good. However, he had never used a gun in actual fight before he had come to Paris. All the tricks Aramis used with firearms were a real novelty for the Gascon. He was an eager pupil.

D'Artagnan would never admit it, but he also used some of Aramis' advice in a different area-women. He had been quite drunk when he had first asked Aramis to share some of his insights on how to please a woman.

That had been so long ago. Before Constance had chosen to remain with her husband...before he had been captured by Allancourt's men.

Allancourt. Only Aramis had truly understood how d'Artagnan had felt after their torture. The marksman, who had shared his cruel fate, had become his guide. The Spaniard had served as a light for him in the world-a world which had suddenly become so dark and twisted. Without Aramis, d'Artagnan would never have made it. Deep in his heart, he knew that if Aramis could survive and eventually find love, there might be a chance for the Gascon to heal as well. After all, if the medic still saw him as a brother, despite all that had happened, perhaps he himself would continue the struggle to make it through another day. After all, it was Aramis who had threatened to kill himself in order to force the Gascon to live.

Aramis...  
His brother.  
His friend.  
Aramis was gone. Nothing could bring him back.

But Athos still needed their help. As did Constance. He could not bear the thought of another man putting his dirty hands on her. Beautiful, independent Constance. A rape would break her... "D'Artagnan, are you listening to me?!" Treville asked briskly.

"I am now, Sir," whispered the boy.

"We found Athos' dagger here, so I am fairly certain they were held here. I want you, Porthos, and Morineau to search the region between the monastery and the road to Melun. We will try to cover the whole area surrounding this place. I expect you back by tomorrow evening."

At that moment, d'Artagnan realized that the darkness was receding, giving way to a grey, rainy day.

_There can be no sun..._

The captain showed them a map. It was not very detailed, but it gave them some insight into the rocky, wooded terrain.

"There are quite a few natural shelters in this area," Treville said. "I recommend that you start by searching those."

Porthos stiffly walked towards the horses. Orage nuzzled at his arm. The big man jumped back, clearly upset. The mare whinnied, confused by her master's friend mood. D'Artagnan patted her neck gently.

They set off in silence. D'Artagnan kept his eyes trained on the hoof prints on the ground. At first, there was simply too many of them to be useful. It reminded him of their race to save Athos and Aramis when the pair had been trapped in the monastery.

_This time we will not be able to save Aramis. We have lost him._

A new wave of grief made it difficult for the Gascon to see clearly. Tears started to trickle down his cheeks. The boy found himself gasping for air, choked by his grief. He struggled to control his breathing. He heard a feral growl, and glanced in surprise at Porthos. The big man radiated fury and despair. D'Artagnan suddenly realized that he was actually afraid to speak to his grieving companion. But once the tracks become easier to discern, he had to engage in conversation.

D'Artagnan dismounted, trying to determine which way they should go. "Four horses went in that direction. We haven't been that way..." he trailed off, hoping that Porthos would decide to follow the tracks.

"Let's track them down," growled the big man. They followed the trail. A few times, d'Artagnan had to stop in order to inspect the hoofprints more closely.

The terrain was far from ideal for tracking. Instead of in single file, the horsemen had rode in an odd fashion. It was as if they had made an inept attempt to cover their tracks-or perhaps had fanned out to survey the area.

"What the hell were they thinking?!" muttered the Gascon, glancing at his companions. In an attempt to see the tracks better, Morineau moved closer to Porthos.

"Any idea, Mis?" asked the dark skinned musketeer absently.

D'Artagnan's heart broke when he overheard. Then Porthos realized his mistake, and turned on Morineau. His face went deathly pale, and he clenched his fists. For a moment, d'Artagnan thought his friend would punch Morineau simply because he was not Aramis.

The other man eyed Porthos cautiously, but remained calm. His eyes were full of sadness. The dark skinned musketeer took in a deep breath, then spoke.

"You liked him, didn't you?" Moreau replied softly, "Yes, I did. His very presence was calming. He always made things seem easier." Porthos nodded, his eyes tearing up again as he slumped in the saddle. It was then that d'Artagnan saw the pheasant feather attached to Porthos' vest.

The Gascon quickly looked away, trying to focus on the tracks in front of him. He bit his lower lip, trying to muffle the sobs which threatened to tear his heart apart. After a few moments, he tasted blood in his mouth.

_Aramis was Porthos' closest friend, his dearest brother. I should not grieve so openly in front of him..._ _God, I need to hear Aramis' voice one more time-to feel his touch. The merest touch of his fingers was always so grounding...so reassuring._

He thought about all the times he had brushed off Aramis...the times he had been irritated by the medic fretting over the his latest battle injury...the times he had been angry at his friend for having seen too much, and for offering support that was not welcome at the time.

_I was so childish...I took Aramis' presence in my life for granted! How could I have been so foolish?!_

The tracks led them straight into the deepest part of the forest. The rocks seemed to take on the shapes of lurking animals. Although it was still daylight, darkness seemed to reign under the barren trees.

_Just as it does in my heart._

The tracks led towards a cluster of rocks. D'Artagnan smelled a hint of smoke in the air, and he signaled for their party to halt. They secured their horses, then began to stealthily move towards the group gathered around the small fire.

"What about the prisoners?" someone asked. D'Artagnan froze at those words.

"The Captain said that he took care of them. I have no idea what he did with their bodies." His sweet, beautiful Constance... reduced to a cold corpse, abandoned in the forest...

"NOOOO!" he roared.

Without further thought, he ran towards the bandits, rapier in hand.

D'Artagnan was dimly aware that his sword sliced into a few of the enemies' bodies. He knew that he parried a few blows, but he felt totally detached. All he saw was a red fog in front of his eyes.

He had lost Constance. He had lost Athos. There was no place left for him on this earth.

He looked around, and saw that all the bandits were dead or dying. Porthos was standing near him, a bloody sword in his hand. His face was a mask of anger. The big man spoke, his voice as empty as his eyes.

"King's friend or not, I am going to kill Allancourt."

"I am going with you," murmured d'Artagnan.

Porthos looked at him. "You should know that I do not plan to return.

" D'Artagnan held his gaze. "Neither do I."


	48. Chapter 48

Constance

 

Rain poured down her face. The cold water had soaked her clothes, and her hair was plastered to her skin.

 

"Aramis?" she asked, afraid that the marksman would not answer.  Athos had already lapsed into unconsciousness.

"Still here," he replied, his voice barely audible. She let out a sigh of relief.

"Do you know this area?" she asked, a hint of hope in her voice.

"No. I am sorry, Constance. I am afraid I have performed the worst rescue ever."

"Aramis..." she made a sound that was something between a chuckle and a sob.

"You are a wonderful woman, Constance--and very brave," he whispered. "I am so happy that you are my brother's sweetheart."

"Now I know you're delirious," she whispered, a hint of a smile on her lips. She was grateful for his attempts to distract her. 

 

Constance felt overwhelmed. They were lost in the cold forest, and she was responsible for two injured musketeers. It was nearly winter now. The branches of the trees were coated with freezing rain.  As the fog floated over them, they appeared almost white.

 

Aramis' voice, even though it was now dangerously weak, served to ground her. She tried to give him a reassuring smile, but failed miserably. She looked around the area, trying to figure out which way would be best to go. She saw a narrow path, and headed the horse in that direction. The slope leading there was quite slippery, and she lost her balance, twisting her ankle painfully as she fell.

 

"No!" she sobbed. She needed to be able to walk. She could not fail them.

Her musketeers.

Her brothers.

 

"Constance?"  She  heard Aramis' weak voice.

"I'm fine," she whispered, then attempted to get up. She tried to use the reins to haul herself up, but the horse instantly lowered her head, and started to bend her knees. A surprised Constance let go of the reins. The animal continued to lower herself to the ground, but the marksman caught the reins, and pulled on them. The animal froze, standing in a more normal way.

 

"What the hell...?" murmured Constance.

"The horse was taught to lie down... It is rare that they learn such a skill. A pity we didn't know earlier..." Aramis muttered.

 

A pity indeed. It would have made it much easier to get you on the horse.

 

"Constance-how badly are you hurt?" the medic asked, his voice nervous.

"I'm fine," she muttered. She tried to get up once again. Her ankle throbbed, but she was able to put some weight on it. She managed to pick up the end of a long stick, thinking to use it as a staff for support. She tested it, and decided it would make walking much easier. She caught up the reins, and directed the horse to a fork in the path. Undecided which way to go, she stopped.

 

"Take the path to the left," ordered the marksman.

 

She knew he did not know the way, but merely wanted to share the burden of making decisions.

 

They rode on in silence. Constance was too tired to talk, but from time to time she called out to Aramis. Each time, her heart froze as she waited for his answer. And each time, his voice became weaker--until the time he did not answer.

 

Constance tried not to panic. She stopped, and approached the horse.

 

"Aramis...?" She touched his hand, her fingers still numb from the cold. She tried to find a pulse on his wrist, but felt nothing. She bit her lips, trying to fight the panic rising in her heart. Fresh tears started to run down her face.

 

"You're a true knight, Aramis--a knight who came to save me. You are my knight. You cannot die... please... give me a sign that you are still here. Please!"

 

There was no response from Aramis. Athos remained unconscious, but was clearly breathing. 

She sighed, and started forward once again.

 

Please, live... Please, Aramis…

 

She was lost in her thoughts. By the time she heard someone approaching, it was too late. She froze, a pistol in her hand. She was deliberating whether to try to take cover in the surrounding trees when she saw the riders and their leader.

 

"Captain!" her voice was nearly a sob.

"Constance!" Treville at her side within seconds. He supported her as she swayed against him.

 

"Captain... Aramis... he is... I cannot find a pulse... Please, forgive me..."

"Aramis??!!" The Captain looked shocked, "Where did you find him? How?!"

 

Constance felt that there was something more to the story than what she knew. The Captain seemed to be stunned. He stared at Aramis, and looked as if he had seen a ghost. 

 

"Is he alive?" Constance's question finally seemed to get through to the Captain. He tore off one of his gloves and started to frantically search for Aramis' pulse. Two other musketeers joined them.

 

"Aramis?!!?"cried Calbert. "So he wasn't buried under that huge rock?!!"

"No. He found us in the forest... " Constance felt a bit dazed.

 

"He is alive--but barely." Treville's face was grim, and he wasted no time in issuing orders.  "We need to get him to shelter. Calbert, take Aramis on your horse, Philippe, take care of Athos. He is burning up."

"They gave him poison. They claimed there was no antidote."  Constance suddenly felt very tired, and her vision started to dim. She felt a desperate need to tell the Captain everything before she lost consciousness. 

 

The musketeers' leader helped her up onto his horse, then sat behind her. She leaned into his warmth, finally feeling safe.

She was close to crying in relief when Treville wrapped her in his cloak. She was hardly able to believe that she had been lucky enough to run into Treville and his men...and that she was finally safe... and free. She started to shiver.

 

She was sure she had not fallen asleep, but then quite suddenly realized that they had stopped in front of the ruins of a small house.

 

The Captain helped her to dismount, while the musketeers took their injured comrades inside. Constance followed them. However when the Captain indicated that she should take a seat by the fire, she refused.

 

"We need to take care of them. Aramis said that Athos should be taken to the palace... to the herbalist," murmured Constance.

"We are still more than a day's journey from the Palace." Treville turned to Calbert. "Assess their condition, and see if they are stable enough to travel."

 

Constance closed her eyes, desperately wishing that she did not have to say what needed to be said.

"Aramis...he suspected that his wounds might be fatal," she said in a near whisper. She feared that her words might somehow sentence the marksman to death.

 

Porthos... where he is?! Where is d'Artagnan? Are they dead?

 

"Porthos? d'Artagnan?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"They are out searching for you. We thought Aramis was dead, and there was no way to hold Porthos here," Treville replied grimly.

 

Constance felt a stab of fear. She did not want to think about the depth of despair that Porthos would be experiencing if he thought his beloved brother dead.

 

"Christ!" Constance heard Calbert's voice.  She glanced up, and froze as she saw him staring at Aramis in horror. The marksman lay motionless. His upper body was stripped from his clothes, and was no place on his skin which was not covered with dark, ugly bruises. 

 

Aramis may have been right when he said that he was dying…

 

Constance forced herself to approach the wounded musketeer. She knelt at his side.

"He should have a jar of balm with him. It may help lessen the pain..."

 

Calbert nodded, and brought Aramis' saddle bag to her. Constance found the right jar, and started to apply the salve to his bruised skin. Although she was terribly tired, she needed to feel useful. After all, her friends were fighting for their lives.

 

Calbert left her to check on Athos. She was relieved that no one had questioned her actions. No one had seemed shocked that she had taken care of a half naked man.

 

Or perhaps they are just treating me as a whore they think I am. Maybe they think I share a bed with all four…

 

She risked a glance at the men who were busy stoking the fire and boiling water. One of the musketeers, a man by the name of Philippe, gave her a friendly smile. She felt relief filling her heart.

 

She carefully inspected the marksman's ribs. None were completely broken, but a few were possibly cracked, especially under the areas where the bruises were nearly black. She gasped when she saw a large, dark purple bruise on Aramis' abdomen.

 

"Calbert?" She turned to him, her eyes asking for his opinion.  This musketeer seemed to have some knowledge of medicine.

 

The musketeer cursed under his breath. He checked the bruised area, eliciting a moan from his comrade.

 

"Calbert?" Constance pressed him.

"It's not a good sign.  I cannot be sure, but he may be bleeding internally."

"May?" Constance clung to the hope that the marksman had not sustained such a serious injury.

"I don't know." His eyes showed his worry. "I can't tell for sure. To be honest, there is not much we can do. We can only make him comfortable..."

 

"While we tend to his other injuries." Constance finished his sentence, her voice filled with a new determination. She refused to believe that the marksman was dying.

 

When they started to unwind the makeshift bandage around his head, Aramis moaned in protest. 

"Aramis, open your eyes, Please--for me," whispered Constance.

 

The musketeer kept his eyes closed, but he turned his head in order to lean his cheek into Constance's warm hand.

 

"You're safe, Aramis,"  murmured Constance. "Treville found us. We are safe."

"...'Thos... poison... herbalist..." the marksman mumbled.

"Treville is taking care of it. Everything will be fine."

"He's not a medic..." There was doubt in his voice. Constance could not hide a smile when she replied.

"Not everyone can be as talented as you, Aramis. So it would be nice if you decided to wake up and join us."

 

A shiver shook his body, and he bit his lips in order to hold back a whimper.

"Aramis, what hurts?" she asked, her voice full of concern.

"Cold," he mumbled, trying to curl up around her. 

She motioned for some blankets, Although she knew that exposing the musketeer was necessary to tend his wounds, she had not thought about how quickly he would lose body heat.   "We have to take care of your injuries. Then I promise that we will get you warm."

 

He murmured in understanding, and relaxed a bit, only to stiffen when t hey started to clean his head injury, which was still bleeding. The wound was still very dirty. Constance could see parts of leaves, little stones, and some soil embedded in it.. They flushed the area with a lot of water, and tried to clean it as best as they could. The skin around the injury was nearly black.

 

Aramis struggled against them, and Calbert was forced to hold him down. After a few minutes of struggle, the marksman went completely limp. Constance's hand shot to his neck to check his pulse. She sighed in relief when she found it.

They worked on in silence.

Calbert checked Aramis' legs, only to find many more bruises.

"It's a miracle nothing is broken," he murmured, cleaning several cuts.

 

"Have you already checked on Athos?" she asked.

"I'm sorry, but there is not much I can do for him. I have no experience with poison," Calbert replied sadly.

 

Constance looked at him, shocked that the musketeer was apologizing for his lack of experience.

 

She wanted to say something more, but Treville's voice cut in.  "Can they be moved?"

 

Calbert got up.   "I am not sure they will survive the night. They need a skilled physician, and a person who has experience with poison. I am sorry, Sir."

"Noiret, Philippe--ride to the Palace. Get the herbalist, and bring him here!” ordered Treville.  Almost to himself, he said softly, “I hope Porthos comes soon."

 

To say goodbye to his beloved brother.

No! Aramis has to live!

Constance stood up, intending to check on Athos. The world spun around her. Someone caught her, and lowered her gently onto the cot near Aramis. She knew she should not be there, but the need for the warm touch of a friend was stronger than her willpower. She curled protectively around the wounded musketeer, and he leaned into her warmth.

I am only making him comfortable. He needs it.

I need to feel him breathing and alive.

I need to feel his touch.

Am I a whore?

"She is his sister. Don't look at them like that!"  Treville's sharp voice was the last thing she heard before she succumbed to sleep.   


 


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' POV

Porthos

“So, you have a brilliant plan to bring the Captain down with you," commented Morineau.

The man must have been talking for some time already, but Porthos had not been paying attention to him.

“What do you mean?" growled the dark skinned musketeer.

"It's very simple, really. You kill the noble who is King’s favorite at the moment, and the Captain pays with his head for it. After all, he was not able to control his men.”

Porthos tried to be reasonable. “He can just say we were deserters. You can tell him to do so.”

“So, you did not feel guilty when you abandoned your brothers in unsafe territory?" Morineau asked sadly.

“No!” cried d’Artagnan. "We don’t want to abandon them!”

"Then you should go with me and turn in your pauldrons to the Captain. If Treville decides you are needed, you will stay--and leave only after he accepts your resignation," Morineau said, his voice firm.

“I don’t believe it will be that simple," muttered d'Artagnan.

They followed Morineau in silence. Porthos sensed that his comrade was right. Their commanding officer would be blamed for their actions. Abandoning his brothers in arms was the last thing that the dark skinned musketeer wanted to do. Aramis would not accept any decision Porthos made which led to abandoning their brothers in need--even if his closest friends were dead. Porthos made up his mind.

“We will go with you to the Captain." He could see the disappointment on d’Artagnan’s face, but he did not care. Revenge could wait. Allancourt would die, but he would not take any of their brother musketeers with him. Just the two of them.

_Not musketeers--just two deserters._

It was really hard to think of himself like that. He had dreamed for so long of his commission before winning it. He could never deny his brothers anything, so he had always known that he might one day lose his place among the musketeers because of them. However, he had never thought that he would turn in his pauldron to seek revenge for Aramis’ death. They should have died side by side on a battlefield, not… Aramis dying alone, crushed by a rock.

Porthos desperately fought against the tears that threatened to fill his eyes. He rode ahead in order to keep his companions from seeing his emotion.

_“I guess you must have a lot of sand in your eyes--they are watering quite a bit." Aramis' voice was soft, and full of compassion. Porthos wanted to growl at him, but the concern in those dark eyes was his undoing. Porthos lost his struggle against the tears. Tears of anger, tears of grief._

Exactly like now. He would give everything to look into his friend’s brown eyes. To hear his teasing--his affection made apparent by the compassion in his voice.

They rode on in silence. Porthos was sure that they were an easy target for an attack, but it just did not matter to him. He knew that he should have take better care of his injuries. Just sticking some cloth under his doublet and shirt would never have met Aramis' standards. At this point, however, there was no reason to fight the numbness which had slowly entered his tormented soul. Feeling nothing was better than living with the unbearable pain of his loss.

_I should grieve for you too, Athos. But there is no more despair left in me. Forgive me, old friend._

_The ruins. Aramis’ grave._

They passed by the area, and headed towards the small ruined house which had provided the musketeers with some shelter. It was not much, but it was enough to shield them from the wind and rain. It also allowed them to build a fire without easily giving away their location.

Porthos only now realized that it was still raining. The cold wind was blowing, and the water on their leathers had started to freeze.

_Aramis hated the cold. It always brought back memories of Savoy._

Porthos dismounted. He led his horse to shelter under the partially damaged roof of the building which they adopted as a makeshift stables.He decided not to unsaddle his horse When he turned, he found himself facing the Captain. Porthos winced. He was not able to hold his commanding officer’s gaze.

“Captain…” He began to speak, but his voice trailed off. He had to report Athos’ death, but could not find the words. His mouth was completely dry.

“Follow me," Treville said simply. Porthos obeyed. He knew d’Artagnan was following him. He knew that it would be up to him to talk to the Captain. The young Gascon was too close to tears to do it, and Morineau had no plans to become a deserter.

They entered the little stone house. It was quite warm inside. A few men were lying on the simple cots. Treville approached one of them, and pulled the blanket away from his face.

Aramis!!!

They had retrieved his body…

How?! How did they manage to do it??

There was a bandage on Aramis' head. That was strange, but it probably meant that his head had been smashed. Porthos took Aramis into his trembling arms, and stared at his pale face. At least he had been given a chance to say goodbye to his friend. He should be grateful.

_God, it is so hard! I don’t want to say goodbye to him...I want him to live!!_

“Careful, Porthos.” He heard a warning note in the Captain's voice. He froze. Had Aramis' body had been so badly damaged that he had to take care in order not to tear it part?! At this thought, the nausea hit him hard. He felt a hand squeezing his arm.

“He is alive, Porthos. He is alive!"

The voices seemed to get through to Aramis, and he moaned.

“Aramis??!!” Porthos felt as if he was going mad.

The Spaniard whimpered softly, as if he was in discomfort.

“Open your eyes, Aramis…” Porthos gently touched his face, even as emotions ravaged his very soul.

Fear.

Relief.

Anger.

Fear.

“How badly is he injured?” Porthos asked. His eyes never left Aramis’ face, focusing on the fluttering eyelids.

“It’s hard to say… according to Calbert, it may be very serious.", replied Treville.

“No…”

_I cannot lose you. I cannot even stand the thought of it. Not again. This time my heart will just stop along with yours._

Aramis slowly lifted his eyelids. His brown eyes were glazed and unfocused. Porthos bit his lip when he saw no spark of recognition in his friend's gaze.

A few seconds later, as the marksman closed his eyes again. He tried to push himself up in the bed, but hissed in pain and started to cough.

“Aramis!!” Porthos lifted his friend gently, hoping to ease his breathing.

“I’ve got you brother… breathe." He murmured the words over and over as Aramis coughed, gasping for air.

Porthos shifted him in order to better support his weight. He feared that he would soon see blood on his friend’s lips. Suddenly, was a commotion around him. He ignored it.

Someone knelt near them.

“Aramis?” He heard a soft voice, full of concern.

He glanced to the side, and his eyes widened in shock.

“Constance?!”

“Drink it. Please. It will help you.”

The young woman spoke to the injured musketeer, but her eyes met Porthos’. She gave him a tentative smile.

“It's good to know they lied about you," she murmured.

_Constance!! Does that mean…_

“Athos?” he asked, shocked that he had forgotten to ask about his comrade. He had not even noticed that Constance was in the room. He was too emotionally drained….

_Maybe I should take a few moments to tend to my wounds._

“Porthos?! Athos is alive. He was poisoned," explained Constance, gently touching a cup to the marksman’s lips.

When she glanced at Porthos, there was concern in her eyes.

The dark skinned musketeer felt strangely detached. Aramis drank half of the cup, then hid his face against Porthos’ arm. A shiver ran through his body. He tried to change his position once again, and hissed in pain.

“Cold…” he whimpered softly, curling up into a ball.

Porthos’ heart broke. He went to take the wounded musketeer into his arms, but Constance stopped him.

“Take off your jacket!” she ordered. "Your leather is wet and cold. He needs the warmth of your body.”

Porthos growled, hating himself for his thoughtlessness. He should have realized that without being told! Aramis was always sensitive to the cold. He hastily took off his vest. He hoped that Constance, who was supporting Aramis, would not see his injuries. He was in luck, for the woman had her hands full with the shivering marksman.

The dark skinned musketeer took her burden from her, and was immediately rewarded by Aramis nestling against him. He could feel how cold his brother's body was. That could not be a good sign.

“What’s wrong with him?” he asked, nervously stroking the marksman's unruly hair.

“Blood loss. That for sure. A head wound--but he was conscious for quite some time after receiving the blow… he is covered in bruises and--" Constance hesitated, and Porthos felt his heart stop.

“And?” he whispered. “He might be bleeding internally." She said the words quickly, as if afraid that a slower pace would give them more emphasis.

“No!" Porthos sobbed. "You’re not allowed, Mis! You’re not allowed to bleed. You’re not allowed to die. You’re not allowed to leave me! Do you hear me, Mis?!!”

“Mhm…” Aramis mumbled incoherently.

It seemed as if he was focused only on huddling against Porthos, desperately trying to get warm. The cold apparently was tormenting the injured musketeer more than the pain of his wounds.

“Mis…”. Porthos whispered, his heart breaking. He was not even sure that Aramis was aware of his presence.

He had to have faith that his brother would survive, but there was no hope left in his heart. His inner fire had been extinguished by grief. The only feeling left was the fear of pain. The pain of loss.

_I should feel relief. I should feel hope… but I all I am conscious of is my fear. I don’t want to hope in vain. I cannot bear to feel hope. I cannot bear waiting for him to die… no! No! He has to live… but there is no hope left in me that he will…_

The guilt started to consume him. Aramis' skin was so cold. Porthos felt the chill begin to penetrate into his body. Fear for his brother was suffocating him. He had fallen apart. He was aware of that. The events of the last… months had finally been too much for him. He should have fought harder, but his legendary strength had waned, washed away by grief.

_He sensed Aramis move just a bit. His breathing was uneven--and wrong._

_“Aramis?” Porthos asked, his voice full of trepidation. His brother gasped for air, then curled up his side and started to throw up. Blood dripped from his mouth, and formed a small puddle on the ground. The marksman was struggling to breathe. Porthos lifted him up a bit, hoping that it would ease his struggle. In vain._

_Aramis ducked his head, and their eyes met. The medic’s gaze was full of pain--and panic._

_“He knows exactly what is wrong with him," thought Porthos._

_“Hush brother… it will be over soon," he whispered, his heart shattering into a million pieces. Aramis moaned in pain._

_“Hush… you’re dying, Mis… I… I know it hurts…” Aramis’ trembling hands clutched his shirt. He begged Porthos for help, his eyes glazed with pain and fear._

_“Mis… you’re dying. I can’t help you… forgive me!" Porthos sobbed, feeling as if shards of his broken soul were leaving his body with each labored breath that Aramis took._


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

 

Aramis

"Mis… you're dying. I can't help you… forgive me." A despairing voice reached into the haze of his sleep. He decided to ignore it. He knew that the cold was waiting to attack him if he came close enough to the surface. He wanted to stay wrapped in the blissful warm presence of another human being.

And then the words hit home. He was dying.

_Strange… I would say that I actually feel a little better._

A muffled sob.

_Porthos! I cannot just lie here and die..not without comforting him!_

Aramis dug his way out, at last coming to full awareness. As he suspected, the merciless cold was waiting for him.

He moaned at its savage bite, and tried to hide in the warmth of his friend.

_I must comfort him! I cannot go to sleep. It is my last chance to say goodbye to my brothers…_

"Porthos?" he mumbled.

"Mis…." The big man was sobbing.

Aramis finally won the struggle to open his eyes. He was disappointed to find that his brother was nowhere in his line of sight. He extended his hand to touch Porthos' face, which he guessed was behind him. His body protested at the movement. It was possible, but quite painful.

"Porthos…" he repeated softly.

It was night. A small candle gave off a bit of flickering light.

"How do you feel, Mis?" Porthos asked slowly. His voice sounded so wrong!

_Is it really important? Should I lie to you, my friend?_

"Thirsty." He chose most honest-and simplest-answer. If not for Porthos' words, he would have risked saying that he felt not too bad...although he was still cold, and each movement caused him some pain.

_Maybe my body is just shutting down._

He was really tired, and very confused by the situation.

_I should be grateful that I am not in much pain... and that I have a chance to speak with my brothers one last time._

Porthos started to lower him to the cot.

"What are you doing?" Treville asked.

"I'm going to get water for Aramis."

The marksman was astonished at the way that Porthos said his name. There was so much sadness... and at the same time, it sounded like the word was something incredibly precious to his brother.

Treville knelt near him, a cup in his hand.

"Constance was adamant you had to drink this once you woke up."

It smelled like a herbal draught. He took a sip. It was the same tea that she had given him earlier. It tasted amazing-perhaps because of all the honey that had been mixed in.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and vaguely remembered that Louise had given them a jar of honey.

"Drink, Aramis!" Treville ordered. The musketeer obeyed. When he finished, Treville offered him another cup of hot liquid. The heat started to spread throughout his body. It felt incredibly good.

"How's Athos?" he asked, forcing himself to focus on the reality he was about to lose forever.

Treville hesitated for a moment.

"The truth-please." Aramis' voice was pleading.

"Fine," answered Treville, his eyes narrowing. "But I expect the same from you in response to my questions."

The marksman gave him a slight nod. The headache was still lurking at the back of his head, waiting to attack if he made too sudden a movement.

"Athos' temperature is still high. We tried to give him some water but… the only way he can keep it down is if we give him a few spoonfuls an hour."

"I have some dried ginger in my things. Mix it with menthe and thyme. It may help with the nausea. He needs more fluid." Aramis did not even attempt to hide his concern.

"I'll bring over your satchel, and you can tell me what to do." The Captain squeezed Aramis' hand lightly.

The medic followed him with his eyes. He took inventory of his body, trying to assess his condition. The more he focused on his injuries, the more confused he felt.

He glanced up at Porthos, who was holding him. He saw that his brother's eyes were red. Porthos would never have said he was dying if he did not believe it.

However, the Captain seemed to be acting more normally. Aramis had seen his commander interact with dying musketeers more than once. Usually he showed much more concern, and was quick to offer support. So why was he acting this way? Maybe he was relieved to finally get rid of the last soldier from Savoy.

Porthos was silent. Aramis knew he should talk to him in private. However, when the Captain brought the herbs over, the medic's attention was diverted. He gave Treville detailed instructions on how to prepare the draught. So much talking was profoundly fatiguing. He longed for sleep, but how could he even think about sleeping when he probably would not wake up?

"Porthos?" he whispered.

"Mis…" The dark skinned musketeer lightly squeezed his arm. Aramis stiffened as the fingers dug into his bruised flesh.

"Sorry… I-" His brother started to apologize, but Aramis interrupted him.

"It's fine, Porthos. You are the best friend a man could ever ask for…"

"No…"

_Brother… there are things which need to be said..._

"I want you to take care of Athos and d'Artagnan…"

"No!" Porthos stubbornly refused to listen. He was breathing hard, obviously enraged by Aramis' lame attempt to say goodbye.

"Porthos…" he whispered pleadingly. He started to tremble, and could not regain control over his body. His brother's wrath had broken down the last bit of the defensive shield that he had fought so hard to maintain.

Porthos untangled his brother from his arms. His muscles were shaking from barely controlled rage. He gently lowered the marksman back onto his cot, then stood up. He did not even glance at the medic, who followed his every movement with his eyes. When Porthos left, he curled up into a ball. He could not stop the tears that gathered in his eyes and flowed down his face. He had lost Porthos.

_What did I do wrong? I just destroyed our brotherhood, and I don't even know what I did! Please, don't leave me now…. Please, just pretend to be my brother for a moment longer… and then you'll be free of me...for good._

"Aramis? What's wrong?" He heard Treville's voice, and hid his face. The shame of being seen when he was so weak hit him hard, but he could not regain his composure. He was so close to panic. He had always feared dying alone….and dying with the awareness that he had lost Porthos' friendship was more than he could bear..

"Aramis, answer me! Aramis, are you in pain, son?"

The last word spoken so softly, almost involuntarily, was Aramis' undoing. He grasped the Captain's hand, holding on as if he feared that his commander would abandon him also.

_I should ask for a priest, but it would only cause problems… because they will feel obligated to find one. I cannot cause any more problems._

"Porthos…" he croaked desperately, flinching at the awful sound of his voice. He was so pathetic and miserable. He hated himself for it.

"Porthos… needed some fresh air," responded the Captain. "I will call him in a moment. We thought you were dead, Aramis. His grief was so intense. It is not easy for him to see you like this."

_I am so selfish to demand his presence. He has already suffered too much…_

"Tell him I'm sorry. Don't let him do anything stupid," he whispered.

Treville sighed. "What can I do for you?" he asked.

_Bring Porthos to me…_

"Nothing."

_Don't be such a selfish bastard, Aramis!_

"I'll wake Calbert."

"No…"

"Aramis, would you want to be sleeping if your patient's condition had worsened?"

He clung to Treville's shirt, and could not answer.

_Don't leave me. I cannot bear to be left alone._

The Captain seemed to understand, and tossed a cup at Calbert. The musketeer woke up abruptly, but did not make a sound.

"Come here!" ordered Treville. He moved a bit in order to give Calbert access to Aramis, but was careful to maintain contact with the wounded man.

Aramis watched him, and prayed that he would not see fear in his commander's eyes.

"How do you feel?" asked Calbert softly.

"I...I don't know." Aramis was confused. He found it harder and harder to focus.

"May I touch you?" asked the musketeer.

Aramis glanced at him. "Sì."

Calbert's warm hand touched the medic's forehead. Aramis noted that his hand was not as warm as Porthos' had been.

"You're cold. I need to check on your injuries. I'll try to be quick, but gentle."

Aramis closed his eyes in order to show his assent. He really didn't want to be touched, but he was so cold. He desperately needed to be warm again.

_But that will not happen in this life._

He stiffened as Calbert's probing fingers started to find more sore spots on his body. He tried to remain stoic during the examination, but when his comrade touched his abdomen, he hissed, and barely refrained from curling up into a ball. It hurt, but feeling like he was defenseless hurt more.

Calbert withdrew his hands, and covered the medic with some blankets. He squatted next to the bed.

"And?" Treville broke the silence. Aramis was grateful. The Captain's presence serve to ground him.

_Maybe it is better that Porthos is outside. This would be too hard on him. I cannot hurt him more than I already have. God… please… I need his forgiveness._

He remembered all the times that the Captain had awkwardly offered his support when Porthos had been away-or wounded.

Calbert checked on the marksman's pulse, probably trying to buy some time before answering. Aramis finally lost his temper.

"Calbert, I know that I'm dying, so spare me your little act!" he snapped.

"What?!" Treville and Calbert stared at him in shock.

After a pause, Calbert asked, "Which symptoms make you think that?"

This time it was Aramis' turn to be shocked.

"Porthos told me I was dying! I suppose your diagnosis makes me think that- or do we have a physician with us?"

"No, we don't. To be honest, I initially was not at all sure that you were going to survive. I still cannot be sure that you are out of danger, as I cannot claim to have much knowledge of medicine…" He hesitated for a moment, then said, "You are the skilled medic here, so I should ask your opinion. Do you think you are bleeding internally?"

Aramis closed his eyes for a moment, trying to ease the pounding in his head. The tension in the room increased.

The marksman started to check himself. His hands seemed clumsy, and every place that he touched hurt. But the pain seemed to be just the pain of a bruised body, although he preferred not to concentrate too much on his ribs. They were not broken, but still hurt like hell.

His left hand finally found the sore spot-the same area that Calbert had touched earlier. When he pushed a bit harder, the pain was unbearable. The skin felt warmer in that area, and the abdomen a bit more rigid than it should be.

_A bit more._

_There is hidden damage._

_But is it serious?_

"How much time has passed since you found me?" he asked

"We found you in the afternoon. It's now after midnight," Calbert replied.

"And how did it look then?"

"The same."

_So it has not gotten worse. That's a good sign._

He probably had much more experience with internal bleeding than Calbert did. After all, he had seen such injuries on more than one occasion. Each time, it proved to be fatal. However, experience had taught him that if internal bleeding was present, he should already be unconscious.

He felt the effects of blood loss, but those might be due to his head wound. It was also possible that he was confusing the symptoms of blood loss with the symptoms of a concussion, as he was pretty sure he had one. Especially with the irritating memory loss.

But still, there remained Porthos' words. Aramis knew that his brother knew next to nothing about medicine. The dark skinned musketeer was prone to panicking over wounded friends, as he really did not have the skill to assess how serious their injuries were. However, he had never told anyone that he was dying. Obviously, pleading with an injured man not to die was not the best bedside manner, but it was a different thing than taking away all hope.

Porthos must have had a very good reason for saying what he did.

_Or maybe he did not say anything, and the words I heard were in my dream. After all, I have a concussion. Or was he trapped in a nightmare?_

"Aramis? Are you still with us, son?" Treville sounded very concerned.

"Yes." Aramis opened his eyes, "Did I vomit blood?" he asked suddenly. He needed to know the truth, and he hoped that his question would take his companions off guard.

"As far as I know - no," answered Calbert cautiously.

"I will go get Porthos," Treville murmured.

"May I check your on your wound?" Calbert gestured towards Aramis' head.

The marksman gave a slight nod.

Calbert gently took off the bandage, and cursed under his breath.

"It has become infected. I must clean it again. It's odd that you don't have a fever."

"Maybe it's too soon…" murmured Aramis.

_Or my body is too exhausted to fight…_

"Calbert!" Treville's shout reached them.

"Go!" ordered Aramis, seeing his companion hesitate.

Calbert nodded, and rushed off.

_Porthos…_

_He probably was wounded._

_And hid his injuries._

_Or he may have been attacked, even killed!_

Aramis tried to sit up. The room tilted around him dangerously. But he did not wait, and stood up. The nausea and dizziness hit him hard.

"Aramis!" He heard Constance's scream. He tried to remain on his feet, but his body had other plans. He hit the ground hard. The pain had no time to register in his brain before darkness enveloped him in a thick blanket of promising warmth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay of posting this chapter here in comparision to its appearance on ff. As I cannot reach ff from my phone I asked my Beta to do it for me.
> 
> DebbieF, thank you so much for your comment on ff. Porthos is a bit over the edge. He fears so much for Aramis that he confuse dreams with reality.


	51. Chapter 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' POV

Porthos

 

The night was cold. Clouds still covered the sky, but it had ceased raining for the moment. Porthos hit the crumbling wall, then kicked it in fury. Again and again.

 

_ He is dying. And I have abandoned him, just like Marsac did. I cannot stand to watch his torment.  _

 

He knew that every single time he closed his eyes, he would see Aramis’ face contorted in pain...blood on his lips, eyes full of fear. It was so wrong to see Aramis afraid! 

 

He clenched his bloody fist, and punched the unyielding wall once more. And again. His knuckles hurt, but it was nothing compared to the pain of a breaking heart.

 

His brother was lying there. Aramis needed him. He needed his presence, his warmth--and Porthos was not able to offer this. Suddenly, it was too much to listen to Aramis’ goodbye. To comfort him. To know that he was going to witness his last breath. Here. In this godforsaken monastery. 

 

Each minute Porthos was away from his friend, he felt worse. Despite this, he was nowhere near ready to return to the room--to hold Aramis in his arms till the very end. It was his place. His role. His duty to his beloved brother. But he was neglecting that duty, because he was a coward…because he was broken.

 

He knew all too well that he would never forgive himself for taking the path of a coward instead of comforting his brother during his last moments. 

 

He had hurt Aramis. But he was afraid he would have hurt him even worse if he had stayed. He had been so close to hitting the medic, desperate to keep him from saying those awful last words. 

 

But the fact remained that his dying brother needed him desperately. And he was denying him his presence. 

 

He hated feeling helpless. He hated failing those whom he loved.

 

In fact, he had already failed Aramis twice. He had been grieving his brother when he should have been searching for him. He guessed that the blast must have sent Aramis tumbling down the steep slope. It explained the marksman’s injuries, especially the fatal ones. 

 

Aramis had not much time left. The dark skinned musketeer knew that he should cherish his last hours with his beloved brother, not waste them by avoiding him. After all, there would soon be no Aramis to avoid.

 

Porthos stood up, surprised to find that he had been kneeling in the mud. He was stumbling towards the entrance of the shelter when Treville appeared, his face full of despair.

 

Porthos forgot to breathe. Was it already over? Had Aramis died in Treville’s care? He saw traces of blood on the Captain's shirt. The material was wrinkled in the places where Aramis had held it in a death grip.

 

“Is he….”, Porthos could not finish his question. His lips refused to form the words. He stood frozen, his eyes riveted on his commander.

 

“Aramis is alive.”

 

_ Still alive. That is what he means to say. _

 

_ “ _ He needs you, Porthos.”

 

Shame flooded through his body, and he began to tremble.

 

“Porthos, who told you that Aramis was dying?” Treville asked, his tone matter of fact.

 

The dark skinned musketeer was surprised by the question, but he answered, “Calbert did.”

 

A shadow fell across Treville’s face.

 

“And why did he came to this conclusion?”

 

“Mis started to vomit blood…” His voice was shaking.

 

He wanted erase from his memory the image that had been burned into his brain. 

 

_ “I don’t feel well…” Aramis whimpered. His face had become paler-- with the exception of the ugly violet bruise spreading from under the bandage.  _

 

_ Before Porthos could ask what he could do to help, the marksman curled up, and began to vomit. He did not expel more than a little blood. Afterwards, he lay bathed in sweat, motionless except for the little tremors which ran through his body. _

 

“Porthos! Are you with us?!” The Captain shook him, his hands squeezing the big man’s arms. 

 

The dark skinned musketeer nodded slowly. He looked up, and saw Calbert standing near them. He regarded him with caution, not sure what was happening.

 

“Calbert, tell me exactly what happened to Aramis after Porthos and d’Artagnan returned,” ordered the Captain.

 

“Aramis, sir? Porthos woke him up a bit with his rather enthusiastic greeting. Aramis was not really lucid, but Constance had prepared a draught for him with yarrow, shepherd’s purse, and honey. He drank half a cup, then fell asleep huddled next to Porthos. I checked on him once. He was sound asleep, so I decided to get some rest myself. Then you woke me up to check on Aramis a few minutes ago. What’s going on?!”

 

“So, you didn’t see Aramis vomit blood?” inquired Treville.

 

“No, I didn’t. I told Aramis the truth, sir! Please, you must believe me! I learned everything I know about medicine from him. I would never lie to him about his condition!”

 

Porthos could barely comprehend what they were saying. What were they talking about?! Was he going mad?! 

 

“Porthos?” Suddenly Treville was cupping his face, forcing him to look into his eyes. “You must have confused your nightmare with reality. You told Aramis he was dying, so he started to act as if he was.”

 

The big musketeer stared at the Captain. His words were slowly starting to make sense. 

 

He had thought that his nightmare was real. He had inadvertently taken away all hope from his brother, then become angry when Aramis had sought his support. He needed to apologize to his beloved friend, who now miraculously seemed to have a chance of beating the odds by surviving.

 

Porthos tried to get to the shelter under his own power, but the ground swayed under his feet. He was barely aware that the Captain caught him. His vision was blurred. Treville and Calbert supported him on either side. There were voices swirling around him. If he had been able to focus, he probably could have understood the words. From the tone of his voice, the Captain seemed to be upset with him.

 

He was taken over to Aramis’ cot. The marksman lay curled up on his side. Constance was hovering over him.

 

“What happened now?!” Treville asked.

 

“Captain, this idiot tried to get up when you shouted for Calbert! I suppose he suspected that his idiot brother had concealed the severity of his injuries. Evidently, he was right!”  Constance replied angrily.

 

“Is he breathing?!”  Porthos did not really hear what the fiery redhead had said. His focus was on Aramis, who lay motionless. 

 

“Of course he is!” she snapped, and slapped Aramis’ cheek.

 

The whimper of protest that came from the marksman was practically the sweetest sound Porthos had ever heard. 

 

“Aramis…” he whispered, his voice broken. 

 

The medic grasped Constance's hand.

 

“Please, check on Porthos!” he begged.

 

The young woman bent towards the marksman.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of both of you--you idiots…” She shook her head in exasperation.

 

Porthos’ wrist was suddenly encircled by cold fingers. He could feel the silent strength that his brother was giving him.

 

Aramis, as always, was giving him everything…while he had abandoned the marksman in a fit of fury. 

 

_ And I dare to call myself his friend… _

 

A sharp pain cut short his musings. He groaned, and dimly realized that Calbert had managed to strip him of his shirt, and was now probing the gash on his ribs.

 

“Porthos, why did you not clean this?! Due to your neglect, it has become infected. It’s going to hurt when I work on it.”  Calbert sounded irritated.

 

Porthos decided not to answer. First of all, he had been convinced Aramis was dead. Caught up in his grief, he had barely noticed his wounds. Then he had found his badly wounded brother, and his own injuries had seemed of little importance.

 

He let out another moan as Calbert worked on him. The cold fingers gently squeezed his wrist once again.

 

“I am here, brother. I’ve got you. You’ll be fine.”  The soft litany was murmured directly into his ear. 

 

He felt so awful. He did not deserve all this care… all this concern. He had acted so selfishly. His self-hatred increased with each soft word that Aramis spoke. 

 

“Stop! Stop it!”

 

“I’m sorry, but I have not quite finished,” Calbert replied.

 

Icy fingers stroked his forehead.  

“Hush brother… you’ll be fine…”

A strange despair gripped Porthos’ broken heart.

“Never...not without you!” he whispered, his voice pleading. 

 

He hoped that Treville had explained everything to Aramis. He hoped that Aramis would forgive him. He hoped that the nightmare would eventually end. He knew that he needed to talk to Aramis. With this thought, he finally succumbed to sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N
> 
> I have had some bad experiences with mistaking dreams for reality, so I promise you it is possible.


	52. Chapter 52

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan's POV

D’Artagnan 

 

He felt dazed, as if he had been dreaming. He had been grieving his true love. Now he was holding her in his arms. Alive. Safe. 

 

Her fingers combed through his hair as her lips met his in a deep, passionate kiss. After several seconds, she bit his lip.

 

“That is for frightening me,” she whispered, her mouth still touching his. His mouth searched for hers as he drew her into in another kiss. He wanted to hold her closer to him--to touch her bare skin. He longed to feel the warmth of her naked body against his…

 

“We’re not alone,” she chuckled, almost speaking into his mouth.

 

“I don’t care!”

 

She giggled, the light dancing in her eyes. “Do you really want all your friends to watch us making love?” 

 

His hands stroked her slim body. 

 

“Do you really want your brothers commenting on your… skills?” She burst into laughter, hiding her blushing face in his arm. 

 

He suddenly realized that his fingers were already working to undo her corset. He knew he should feel ashamed, but at this point, he really didn’t care.

 

“Should I ask your forgiveness, Madame?” he inquired with a bow.

 

“Yes, you should. But not now.” The teasing disappeared from her voice. 

 

“Athos?” he asked.

 

How could he have forgotten about his mentor? 

 

“He is in bad shape.” Constance gestured towards the musketeer, who lay on a nearby bedroll.

 

D'Artagnan knelt beside his friend. His heart sank when he saw how pale Athos’ face was. Even in the dim light, he could clearly see dark circles under his eyes. There were also ugly bruises on his face. 

 

“What is wrong with him?” he asked.

 

“They poisoned him.” She bit her lip, and lowered her eyes guiltily. “D’Artagnan, I tried to distract him-- to make him focus on me. I really tried! But I didn’t succeed…”  She was close to tears.

 

“Him?” the Gascon asked, suddenly alert. 

 

“The ‘True Musketeers’ Captain,” she replied.

 

“Did he hurt you?” he asked, his voice trembling. 

 

She looked him straight in the eye.  “If it will make you feel better, he only beat me.”

 

D’Artagnan hated to see the fear in her eyes. His bold, brave Constance was afraid. That was sufficient reason to kill this man...and he had much, much more to motivate him.

 

He glanced at his mentor. Even though he was unconscious, Athos seemed to be in pain.

 

Constance returned to Athos, and rewet the cloth that was on his forehead. She wrung it out, then gently washed his face before placing it back on his fevered brow. She picked up a cup, hesitated for a moment, then put it in the Gascon’s hands.

 

“What…?” he asked confused.

“You can drink it if you want,” she said quickly, then darted towards Porthos and...

 

D’Artagnan followed her, his gait unsteady.

 

It was impossible! 

 

_ Aramis! Aramis was alive??!!! It must be a dream!! _

 

He could not believe his eyes. He shook his head with despair, sure that he would soon wake up in a world without his two brothers and his sweetheart. That thought was more than he could bear. He stood frozen, praying for this miraculous vision to last. 

 

He felt a heavy hand on his arm, its strong grip grounding him. He closed his eyes. He dreaded opening them, sure that he would see that Aramis had disappeared…. or that he had become a corpse that was being tenderly held by Porthos.

 

“D’Artagnan? What’s wrong?” Treville’s gruff voice finally reached his confused mind.

 

“Please, sir… don’t let it end.”

 

“D’Artagnan!” The order was unmistakable. The Gascon opened his eyes, only to meet the  Captain’s solemn gaze.

 

“Aramis is alive.” Treville guided the boy to the bed, where he saw the marksman nestling against Porthos.

 

D’Artagnan, bewildered, stared at Aramis. The medic did not really seem to be completely conscious. His eyes were not open. But he was alive.  _ ALIVE! So…. was there really a chance for all of them to make it?? _

 

Constance left the two musketeers, and gave the stunned Gascon a quick smile. However, worry still showed in her eyes.

 

“How bad is it….?” he asked.

 

“Time will tell,”  she murmured. “He saved us, you know. He found us and saved us. And then he told me to leave him to die. Stupid knight! When he recovers I’ll slap him for his idiotic ideas! Ah, and as we are speaking about idiots, are you hurt? And tell me the truth, please! I have had a rough few days, and it would be a pleasure for me to hit someone--and to cause pain.” Her eyes wandered below d'Artagnan's waist. The Gascon swallowed, suddenly feeling nervous.

 

He decided that now was not the time to go with his usual ‘I’m fine’. 

“Just a cut or two…” 

 

He was rewarded with a smile, and Constance pushed him onto the cot. He tried not to grin when she stripped him of his shirt. His smile vanished when she focused on cleaning the two shallow cuts on his chest. 

 

“I’ll stitch them up. If I don’t, the edges of the wounds will be pulled apart with every your move. It would significantly hinder the healing.” He was surprised by her assessment.

 

“Constance? You seem to have a good deal of experience with wounds…”

 

“I am a seamstress. When Aramis is unavailable, musketeers have been known to come to me with minor injuries when they do not want to call a surgeon.”

 

“Why? How did you start tending to their wounds?”

 

He had been unaware that wounded musketeers had been in the habit of coming to her house before he lived there. But obviously Constance had known Athos long before the Gascon had ever come into her life. 

 

“Long story... my first patient was Athos, who was left lying in front of my door… It was a few days after my wedding. Someone’s idea of a wedding gift, I presume.”

 

“Did you know him?”

 

“No, but I was stupid.” She shrugged. “Instead of kicking a bleeding, drunk musketeer off my doorstep, I tended to his wounds, and nursed him through the hangover. He told me that they had lost their medic.”

 

“Had they?”

 

“I never asked.”

 

“So, you were not exactly an innocent young woman when I asked for your help so we could enter Gaudet’s camp?” He gave her a teasing smile.

 

Before the words were out of his mouth, he knew he had gone too far. She shook her head sadly.

 

“I had tended wounds for the other musketeers. I had hidden them when necessary. I had lied for them...but you are the only one for whom I killed.” She was silent for a moment, then added softly, “And the only one for whom I betrayed my husband...the only one I have ever loved.” She kissed his bare arm, then said briskly, “Right. Go ahead and put your shirt back on. Are you hungry?”

 

“No.” He was too drained to be hungry, “I’ll take care of Athos. You should sleep.”

 

She wanted to protest, but a yawn betrayed her. She nodded, then she got up went over to the fire. She poured a little liquid into the cup.

 

“Watch me,” she murmured. She took a spoon, and dripped a few drops of tea into Athos’ mouth. He moaned softly.  It was hard to tell if he was protesting or asking for more.

 

“Wait at least a half an hour, then try to give him a bit more. If you try to give him too much too soon, he’ll throw up. Right now, we don’t have the herbalist here, so this is the best we can do.” 

 

D’Artagnan nodded. He hoped that Athos would hang on until the herbalist arrived.

 

_ Providing he was not killed. Providing he is willing to help. Providing there is any way to help.  _

 

Constance wrapped herself up in a blanket, and curled up near d’Artagnan. He stroked her hair tenderly, his heart full of love and pride. 

 

Then he focused on Athos. There was not much he could do. He knew that the rag did not really need to be dampened every twenty minutes, but he had to channel his nervous energy in some fashion.

 

Treville decided to get some rest, but ordered d’Artagnan to wake him at midnight. He had already posted a guard outside. D’Artagnan watched as his commander and Calbert readied for bed.

 

Fatigue was slowly digging its way into the Gascon’s awareness. 

 

Aramis’ death. The crazy race to save Athos and Constance. The despair when he thought they were dead.. The fight. The plan of suicidal revenge. All these thoughts started to take a toll on the young musketeer, even though those whom he grieved were still breathing.

 

_ But for how long? _

 

The Gascon sighed, watching the flickering of a small candle. It gave off a little light. He could barely make out the human shapes lying on the cots. With one exception - Porthos was half sitting, holding Aramis close to his chest. 

 

_ I did not even ask how he came to be injured. But why should I? I am not the medic here. A lame excuse. I am too afraid. Although Constance acted as if she still has hope. I believe her.  _

 

Athos moved slightly. His eyelids fluttered, and then he slowly opened his eyes. His blue eyes were bright in the darkness.

 

“Aramis?” he asked nervously.

 

“He is resting in Porthos’ arms.” The Gascon smiled. He was relieved to see his mentor coherent.

 

“How bad?”

 

_ Perhaps I should not be so happy that he is lucid. _

 

“Not completely out of danger.” He did not want to lie to Athos.

 

“Bastard. He owns me a bottle of the finest wine.”

 

“Do you want some wine?” d’Artagnan asked hopefully.

 

“No. Don’t fancy vomiting it up.”

 

_ Athos is refusing wine?!!! _

 

D’Artagnan was close to panic, but tried to sound teasing when he spoke.

 

“Fine. I’ll take note of the first time in history that you have refused wine--but you do have to drink this.  I won’t take “no” for an answer.”  He held out a spoon of liquid. It smelled vaguely of honey. 

 

Athos obediently drank it.

“More,” he begged.

D’Artagnan swallowed hard at the sight of his proud mentor pleading for water.

 

He waited a while, but Athos pleaded for more. The Gascon lifted him a bit, alarmed at how weak he felt in his arms. He gave him some more, and the swordsman drank greedily. Then d’Artagnan helped him lie down. 

 

Athos lay still, his breathing shallow. The boy observed him with anguish.

 

_ I should not have given him so much to drink. So much… it would almost fill a small cup. _

 

He was close to tears when Athos began throwing up. The swordsman lay curled up on his side. Tears of pain mixed with sweat ran down his face. The Gascon gasped when Athos spat up some blood. He tried to comfort his mentor with his touch, tracing small circles on the man’s back. Athos shivered under his hands. 

 

“I am sorry, I am so sorry…” d’Artagnan lamented.

 

“Shut up,” growled Athos. “Not your fault,” he whispered breathlessly. 

 

D’Artagnan started to clean up the ground as best he could with one hand. His other hand remained in contact with his mentor.

 

“Don’t worry. I won’t disappear.” Athos lightly squeezed the Gascon’s leg. Although the swordsman’s eyes were closed, he boy managed to offer him a shaky smile.

 

“Sorry… I am the worst nurse imaginable…”

 

“You’re a brother,  not a nurse,” Athos corrected him. His voice was so hoarse. The Gascon’s heart ached. 

 

Athos finally fell asleep. D’Artagnan really hoped for a respite for his brother. However, he should have known…

 

“No.” The word, uttered weakly by Athos, caused the Gascon to focused his attention on his brother.

 

“Constance! No! Leave her!” A desperate, yet barely audible, plea.

 

“Constance is safe, Athos. Please… wake up brother! Please!”

 

“Athos!” He heard her voice near him. “I am safe. Aramis saved us.”  She spoke with conviction.

. 

“Aramis is dying,” mumbled Athos.

 

“No, he is not,” said Constance. The Gascon did not like the note of despair in the redhead’s voice.

 

“It’s my fault… I kill everyone I love,” whispered Athos. The sadness in his voice was devastating. A single tear slid down his cheek.

 

“I am a menace…” he murmured. He said something else, but his words became inaudible as he succumbed to sleep. 

 

Constance went back to sleep. D’Artagnan was barely conscious when he decided to wake up the Captain. The man relieved him from duty after listening to his grim report.

 

A scream pulled d’Artagnan back from the dark abyss. In a moment, he was on his feet, a pistol in his hand.  He realized it was after dawn. The shabby room was filled with the grey light of day.

 

Everyone was awake except Porthos, who was tossing in his sleep, yelling a desperate “No!!” Aramis was sitting near him. He was extremely pale, but very much alive. The medic, was was already bleeding from a split lip, tried to calm down the agitated, muscular musketeer. 

 

“No!!” sobbed Porthos, unresponsive to his friend’s efforts. 

 

Treville and Constance were hovering near them. However, neither orders nor soft pleas helped the situation.

 

Porthos’ hand connected with Aramis body, eliciting a muffled cry of pain from the marksman. Porthos froze. Aramis fell heavily on his chest, but was careful not to touch Porthos’ left side. His hands softly stroked the big man’s hair and face. Aramis spoke to his brother, his voice soft and low. The medic lifted his head, and his eyes met d’Artagnan’s. He was sure the medic was ordering him to come to him. So he obeyed.

 

“Yes?” The boy knelt near him.

 

“Has anyone patched you up? Or are you just waiting for an infection to set in?” The medic fixed his gaze on his friend.

 

“Constance tended to me.”

 

_ It so good to hear his voice. I will be angry at him later for acting like a mother hen, but not now. Now I am only grateful.  _

 

“Aramis you’re as cold as a corpse,” mumbled Porthos.

 

“You have a fever, and I’ve lost some blood.  I feel colder to you than I really am,” soothed Aramis.

 

“No… you’re dead.”

 

“Well, this dead man will be forced to hit you if you keep up such delirious talk,” threatened Aramis.  He turned to d’Artagnan, and mouthed, “Go, sleep.”

 

The Gascon quietly withdrew, and started to prepare breakfast. 

  
  



	53. Chapter 53

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' POV

Porthos 

 

_ Snow melted by blood. Bodies lying in frozen crimson puddles. _

_ So much death. He recognized his friends. Names came to his mind as a silent last farewell.  _

 

_ Aramis… he choked back a sob when he saw the medic’s face covered in blood. He could not bear the emptiness of his friend’s sightless eyes.  _

 

_ Aramis… the first person who had extended a hand of friendship to a overwhelmed young refugee from the Court of Miracles. He had fled the only world he had ever known in hopes of finding a better one. The marksman had become his guide to that enormous and amazing new world. They might have been close friends. He might have become his family. His brother.  But they had been robbed of that chance. _

 

_ He had lost a brother before he had gained him.  _

 

_ He gently lifted the body of his friend. Aramis’ head rolled to the side, and came to a stop when it met Porthos’ arm. His empty eyes stared accusingly at the big man.  _

 

_ Porthos sobbed. Why fate was so cruel to him? Why had it taken away something that should have flourished?  _

 

“Hush… Brother, please open your eyes. Please!” A pleading voice reached him. He opened his eyes, only to stare into a fevered pair of brown orbs. 

 

_ They are not empty! There is life in them! _

 

“Aramis?” he rasped.

“I am here, brother,” the marksman said gently, then repeated the phrase several times. 

 

“I… thought…” Porthos’ voice trailed off. He should not bring up Savoy now.

 

“That you had found my cold body?” Aramis supplied. ”Well, next time you had better be sure I’m dead before you allow your wound to fester.”  There was a hint of worry and anger in his voice. Otherwise, it sounded too weak for Porthos’ liking. 

 

His memory returned suddenly, and he closed his eyes. Reality seemed only a little bit better than his nightmare. Aramis was seriously injured.

 

_ So why is he sitting up instead of lying down? _

 

The touch of a cold palm on his cheek pulled him out of his reverie. He felt his head lifted up, and a cup was pressed to his lips.

 

“Drink, Porthos.”  Aramis' voice reached him.

 

He decided against tasting the draught. Instead, he gulped it down as fast as he could. Nevertheless, it left a bitter taste in his mouth. He glared at Aramis. His brother was sitting near him, his dark hair partially covering his pale face. Aramis looked disheveled and tired. In the dim light of the cloudy winter day, Porthos saw the dried blood on Aramis’ lips. He gasped, suddenly panicking.

 

“Aramis!” His voice was desperate.

 

“Yes?” The marksman leaned over him, his eyes full of concern. 

 

“How bad is it?”

 

“It’s quite serious. The wound has become infected. We cleaned it out as best we could. You have a fever, but your temperature is not dangerously high. You will beat the infection, but you won’t have a pleasant time doing it.”

 

_ He is still angry at me for letting the infection set in.  _

 

“I was asking about you, you idiot!”

 

Aramis paused for a moment as Treville approached, carrying a cup of steaming liquid.

 

“Constance said you’d better drink it while it’s hot,” murmured the Captain. The marksman took the cup, and gave a slight nod of thanks. His hands shook a bit. 

 

He closed his eyes in bliss when he tasted the hot drink.

 

_ I would like to see his expression if he was shown a tub full of hot water. _

 

“He would be close to ecstasy,” murmured Aramis, his eyes faraway. 

 

“Are you able to read my thoughts?!”

 

“Only the ones you’ve voiced.” Aramis smiled. “I do indeed dream about having enough hot water to take a bath.” He stroked Porthos’ hair, his eyes thoughtful.

 

The dark skinned musketeer shuddered when his brother’s cold fingers touched his face. Aramis put a cold rag on his forehead. The coolness was irritating, yet somehow also soothing. Aramis cautiously lay down, nestled against Porthos’ side. He hummed softly.

 

Porthos knew he needed to ask about the marksman's health, but suddenly, he could not keep his eyes open. His lips could not form the right words. He mumbled something, and Aramis murmured a reply. His fingers were still stroking Porthos’ cheek.  

 

_ Treville gently lay Aramis on the old table in Louise’s house. The woman checked on him, then glanced at Porthos sadly.  _

_ “There is nothing I can do. He is dead.” _

 

_ Porthos screamed his desperate “No!” He could not listen to these cruel words. He threw himself at Aramis, shaking him violently. The marksman’s head rolled to the side, and hit his arm. Porthos muffled a sob, then slapped his friend vigorously.  _

 

_ Someone caught him. Words slipped past him, never really reaching him.  _

 

_ He hit the person who took him from his brother, and felt grim satisfaction when heard a groan of pain.  _

 

“Enough, Porthos!”  A barked order. 

 

_ How can Treville be so cruel to me? Why will he not let me grieve for my friend? _

 

“Porthos! You are hurting him!” growled the Captain. 

  
  
  


It did not make any sense. Porthos’ arms tightened on his brother’s body. This time he heard a soft whimper, accompanied by a familiar choking sound. He had killed enough people to know its significance. 

 

“Porthos!!” There was an urgency in Treville’s voice.

 

The dark skinned musketeer opened his eyes, and was mortified by what he saw.

 

Aramis was staring at him, his gaze pleading. His nails desperately dug into Porthos’ hands in a vain attempt to get the big man to loosen his grip. The medic’s face was deathly pale, with the exception of several dark bruises and the blood that had been smeared on his moustache and beard. He was gasping for air.

 

Porthos let him go, then recoiled, full of remorse for his actions.. Aramis landed hard on his side. 

 

“You cannot be so close to me!” Porthos shouted. “I need more space!”

 

Aramis’ hand, which had reached out to Porthos, froze mid way. The pain in his dark eyes was crushing. 

 

Porthos did not need to hear the furious mutterings of his Captain to understand that after having beaten Aramis, he was now hurting him further.

 

“Mis, I am so sorry! Please forgive me! How badly have I hurt you??”

 

He cursed his legendary strength. What good was it when it caused him to hurt his beloved brother?

 

“I’m fine,” whispered Aramis, his hoarse voice barely audible. He licked the blood from his lips. 

 

“No, you’re not!” Porthos cried desperately. He sat up quickly, and everything went black. Hands shot out to support him, then lowered him onto his cot. The hands that touched his skin were so cold. He shivered. 

 

“You have a high fever. Take it easy!” Aramis murmured. He placed a cold rag on his friend’s  head. 

 

“I have hurt you, brother…”

 

“It’s not your fault. It’s the fever. I’ll change your bandages. Captain, could you bring me a new poultice?”

 

The soft plea for assistance was more than Porthos could bear, but all he was could do was lie on the bed, desperately trying not to fall asleep. He knew that if he slept, he would find himself confronting the same nightmare of Aramis’ death. His resulting agitation would threaten the safety of the living, breathing Aramis.

 

“Mis… don’t let me fall asleep!” he begged, grabbing his friend’s hand. 

 

The medic met his pleading gaze.

 

“I don’t know a way to keep the nightmares away. But I do know that you need to rest your body in order to heal. The fever is playing tricks on you…”

 

“I cannot sleep! I cannot bear to see you dead again and again!” Porthos realized with trepidation that he his voice was almost a sob. It was true that the fever was affecting him. He hissed when Aramis peeled the bandage from his wound, then started to scrub it in order to clean the area. Porthos tried to wriggle away, seeking to avoid the pain, but someone's hands immobilized him. Through the haze, he heard voices trying to soothe him. 

 

No!

He had to remain conscious! 

But his body had different plans.

 

_ He was completely drunk. There was no other way he could attend the funeral. He watched as fists of fresh earth were scattered onto Aramis’ coffin. He heard Treville giving his speech, and his soul screamed in denial. _

 

_ Why did they force me to come?! He would have preferred to have been left lying drunk in the gutter. He desperately needed to get away from this place. He screamed.  _

 

_ It felt like a bucket of cold water had hit his face. When it reached his throat, he started to cough. He blinked, gasping for air. He was furious at Athos’ attempt to make him more lucid. His shattered soul, already tormented by grief, did not need to feel any more pain. The numbness was a salvation.  _

 

“Porthos, are you with us?” He heard Treville’s gruff voice. A soft hum of platitudes seemed to come from farther away. A cold hand was on his neck.

 

“He’s burning up, Captain. We have to get him to a real house. The conditions here are not helping anyone.” Porthos heard a painfully familiar tone. 

 

“Mis?” he whispered. 

 

“Yes. I am here. I am alive.”

 

Aramis was so pale and tired. It was already dark in their shelter. The short day had departed, leaving them to face the darkness of the night.

 

“Mis…”  he whispered, trying to convey in that one word all the love and fear for his brother that he was feeling.

 

“I am here. I am here for you,” murmured Aramis. 

 

There was a commotion near the entrance, and Porthos sensed that the marksman had reached for his gun. It had never been far from his hand.

 

“Captain! Don’t shoot!  Philippe and Noiret here!”

 

“Come in!”

 

Porthos felt Aramis relax when he saw the herbalist.

 

“Marc, it’s good to see you.” The medic’s voice was full of relief.

 

“I am forever in your debt,” replied the herbalist, greeting him warmly.

“Please, I need your help with Athos. He was poisoned. Constance can update you on his condition,” Aramis said, his voice tense.

 

Marc gave him a timid glance. “If I may say so, you do not look so good yourself, Monsieur.” 

 

“Now you’ve hurt my feelings.” 

 

Aramis’ reply made Porthos smile, but he did what came next. “I would also appreciate some help with Porthos’ infection-- and his fever induced nightmares.”

 

The dark skinned musketeer felt embarrassed to have any attention directed to him. 

However, he soon focused instead on the ominous report that Constance gave on the status of Athos’ health. It was only after she had finished that he realized that she was sitting near them on the cot. The candlelight had given the illusion that her red hair was one with the flame.

 

“It is too late to give him the antidote,” Marc stated grimly.

 

“What do you mean it’s too late?!” Aramis sounded terrified. Porthos, who was partially supported by the medic, could feel his friend’s heart beating wildly.

 

“The antidote will do him no good. Still, I daresay there is hope for him.”

 

“What can we do to help him?” asked Aramis, his body still tense. 

 

“Your draught seems to have helped, so we will give him more of it. We also need some decent food for him... and for all of you!”

 

“We brought a few things from the Palace,” said Philippe.

 

“Marc, check on my men. I need to know if they are fit enough to ride tomorrow,” Treville ordered.

 

Aramis wanted to protest, but the Captain silenced him with a glare. 

  
  



	54. Chapter 54

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

Aramis

 

As Marc examined Athos, Aramis watched him like a hawk. He hated to see a stranger examining his brother-- even if this stranger was an expert on poisons. Aramis trusted the herbalist enough to realize that the man was willing to help them. However, his level of trust was not sufficient enough for him to relax while the man cared for his brother.

 

Athos was semiconscious. He winced under Marc’s touch, and Aramis felt fury flowing in through his veins. 

 

“Be careful!” he snapped. He tried to adjust his position so that he could be ready to throw himself at the man if necessary. However, he was still supporting Porthos, and the big man made that impossible.

 

The apologies Marc spoke to Athos did not really help.

 

The herbalist gently adjusted the blanket around Athos, then sighed heavily. 

 

“How is he?” Treville spoke up before Aramis had a chance to.

“The poison has wreaked havoc with his system, although it does not seem to be active at this point. He may recover, but any further stress on his body could prove fatal.”

 

“Does riding count as a stress?” Treville asked grimly.

 

Marc looked around at the men surrounding them, his gaze passing from one injured musketeer to another. Then he seemed to analyze the dilapidated room. His eyes rested on the cloth sheltering the entrance. Then he glanced at the small fire that had been stoked between the cots.

 

“He won’t be able to recover here. But I must be honest-- the journey will be dangerous for him.”

 

Athos mumbled something, his voice so low that only d’Artagnan could hear.  Aramis saw a small smile form on the Gascon’s lips. 

 

“Athos agrees to risk the ride rather than rot in these ruins without any good wine,” the boy announced. 

 

Athos nodded slightly, as if to confirm the Gascon’s words.

 

Marc stood up and approached Aramis. 

 

“May I check on you and on Porthos?” he asked. Aramis was aware that his hands had tightened their grip on his friend. 

 

The marksman nodded slightly, though he felt very uncomfortable. However, he changed his position and removed some of the blanket covering Porthos. He gently exposed the wound, which had been hidden under a bandage kept in place by an herbal poultice. 

 

Porthos opened his eyes. “Mis?”, he asked nervously.

 

“I am here. Marc wants to check on your wound. I hope that he can provide us with something to help you beat the infection.”

 

Porthos nodded, then grasped Aramis’ hand. The medic squeezed it lightly. 

 

Marc palpated the area around the wound, and Porthos growled in protest.

 

“Hush, brother. He doesn’t have a needle in his hand,” teased Aramis gently. 

 

He was rewarded with a hasty smile from his friend. 

 

“What have you given him so far, Monsieur?” Marc withdrew his hands and looked quizzically at Aramis. 

 

“Elderberries and elderflowers, plantain leaves, rose petals, and nettle leaves boiled and mixed with calendula oil and tea tree oil as a poultice. I gave him also willow bark, yarrow, thyme and elderflower with honey to drink.” 

 

“You did well.”  Marc paused for a moment. “I do not think I can any more for him, other than to give him something to help him sleep.”

 

“No. It may cause him to be caught up in a nightmare,” replied Aramis, shivering slightly. 

 

He remembered the draught he had prepared after Savoy, when dreams took away every opportunity to rest. He had slept after it, and no one was able to reach him, to save him when he found himself trapped in the never ending nightmare of the massacre.

 

“Can Porthos ride?” Treville asked.

 

“It will hurt him. It may make his fever spike, although being stuck in this place doesn't help him either.”

 

The Captain nodded, it was hard to tell if he was satisfied with the answer.

 

“So we should ride tomorrow,” Aramis stated.

 

“Check on him,” Treville ordered Marc.

 

“I am fine!”, Aramis protested.  _ I am just beyond exhausted. I don’t think I can stand up without help, but I’m ready to ride...if only to get to a warm room with the plenty of hot water. _

 

Marc knelt near the marksman.

“May I?” he asked, touching the bandage on Aramis’ head.

 

The musketeer remained silent, and Marc interpreted that as consent. He carefully removed the dressing. 

 

Aramis fought not to withdraw from his touch. The pain seemed to be a blessing. It was so easy to focus on it.

 

Marc sighed.

“Why did you not put the same poultice on your own wound?”

 

“I left the herbs for those wounded more seriously,” Aramis replied. He did not want to waste the precious herbs on himself--not when his brothers needed them. Calbert was not really aware of what he had in his medical kit, so the musketeer had used only the herbs he had kept in his things. 

 

“It doesn’t look good,” Marc commented 

 

“I don’t have a fever,” Aramis replied. His voice was far weaker than he liked.

 

“Do you have other injuries, Monsieur?” Marc asked.

 

“Just bruises.”

 

“Aramis!”  Treville scolded him.

 

The marksman did not want to be touched, but he reluctantly disentangled himself from the blankets and lifted his shirt. 

 

The sensation of feeling a stranger’s touch on the bare skin of his stomach was more than he could bear. He suddenly felt trapped. He stiffened, and recoiled as much as he could. He needed more air and started to gasp desperately for breath. Each breath was painful, and horribly inadequate. He felt as if he were suffocating.

 

“Is the pain very bad?” someone asked him.

 

He shook his head. Black spots danced before his eyes. 

 

He heard Constance say something. He could not make out the words, but he leaned into her touch.

 

A cup was pressed to his lips, and a thick warm liquid entered his mouth. It took him by surprise. He had expected water, or perhaps a draught. He did not manage to swallow it. He gagged, and tried to get up, his hand pressed firmly to his lips. He knew he would be sick, and all he wanted to do was to escape from this room. However, he lacked the strength. 

Someone broke his fall, and held him as he vomited. Pain exploded in his body. He tried to catch his breath between heaves, and started to cough. His ribcage felt as if it was on fire. He soundlessly pleaded for the pain to end. He was trembling, and felt tears flow down his cheeks. 

 

There were urgent voices around him, but he could not understand them. He curled up into a ball. Someone tried to straighten out his body, and he fought against the hands. A sharp order was barked out, and he was finally left alone. For a moment. Before he was gathered into someone’s arms.. 

 

_ I am so miserable… why am I in someone’s arms? _

 

But there was no need to escape. A hand stroked his hair in a soothing way, as a voice murmured softly near his ear. The pain calmed down a bit, and he managed to get more air into his hungry lungs.

 

_ I have panicked. I am completely unfit to be a musketeer.  _

 

He recognized d’Artagnan’s voice murmuring platitudes. He risked a deeper breath. It hurt, but he gently untangled himself from the Gascon’s arms. The boy watched him with worry. 

 

“I can ride,” he rasped, cringing at the sound of his voice. 

 

“I know.” Treville voice was grim. “Please, forgive me, Aramis.”

 

His commanding officer was kneeling near Porthos, his hand flat on the healthy part of the injured musketeer’s chest. The big man was watching Aramis intently, fear in his eyes. The marksman summoned up his best smile, and Porthos mirrored his expression sadly. 

 

Constance knelt near Aramis with a steaming cup. It smelled of menthe. 

“Drink. It will help you,” she told him. He obeyed. He glanced around the room, fearing he would see pity and disgust on the faces of his fellow musketeers. But he found none. They only seemed to be genuinely worried. 

 

“I apologize…” he mumbled. His voice was so low that only Constance and d’Artagnan could hear him. 

 

“There is nothing to apologize for.” Constance smiled at him sadly.

 

“It is my fault. My order put you through this whole unnecessary ordeal,” Treville said.

 

Aramis closed eyes for a moment. 

“Tomorrow, we will ride to Fontainebleau,” he stated. 

 

“We will,” the Captain agreed. “So now - sleep. You need to rest.”

 

“I’ll take care of Porthos,” d’Artagnan promised. 

 

Aramis allowed himself to be lowered to lie near Porthos. His brother was still too hot for his liking. The medic in Aramis cringed at his brother’s fever, but the wounded soldier in him leaned desperately into the warmth. Porthos wrapped his arms around his brother.

 

“You scared me,” the dark skinned musketeer mumbled accusingly. 

 

“I’m sorry,”  whispered Aramis.

 

“Don’t be,” murmured Porthos. “Just don’t do it again.”

 

“Do you think I don’t want to be normal?” Aramis felt a bit hurt.

 

“You are normal. And you will feel that way again soon,”  Porthos replied drowsily. He was falling asleep. Aramis suddenly found himself too exhausted to fight the urge to sleep anymore. 

  
  
  



	55. Chapter 55

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d'Artagnan's POV

D’Artagnan 

 

Time was passing slowly. Only one candle was left. It gave off just enough light to make the ominous shadows seem even darker. D’Artagnan knew exactly where the cloth and the bowl with water were. He did not need light to find Porthos’ forehead, but he still felt uneasy and insecure.

 

The night was silent apart from the constant drumming of the rain. The farm boy knew that no animal would wander about in such bad weather. 

 

Everything seemed to be wet and cold. The moisture in the air was almost palpable.

 

Marc was right. No one could recover from a serious illness in such conditions. However, the herbalist had been clear about how dangerous the journey would be for Athos. That thought filled the Gascon with trepidation. But did they really have any choice?

 

He left Porthos for a moment, and checked on Athos. His mentor was still feverish, but he seemed to be sleeping peacefully. 

 

The Gascon changed the rag on his forehead, pausing when he saw the slits of Athos’ half- open eyes.

 

“Sleep,” he murmured softly. 

 

“Not your fault, remember?” whispered Athos.

“What is not my fault?”

 

The poisoned musketeer shivered, and his eyes seemed to focus slightly.

“What happened...what is going to happen,” Athos said grimly.

 

“If you try to say goodbye, I’ll slap you,” d’Artagnan warned. But there was no fury in his voice-- just wild concern and fear. 

 

“You’ve been spending too much time with Constance.”

 

“Do you think you can stomach a few spoons of this draught?” the boy asked, the cup already in his hands. Athos nodded slightly. He obediently drank five spoons of the herbal liquid before he murmured his thanks. He appeared to have fallen asleep. However, when the Gascon tried to stand up, Athos caught his hand.

 

“You must take care of Aramis during the journey. He is going to try to finish himself off because of the wounded… because of Porthos…”

 

The Gascon nodded. He knew what Athos had not said. Obviously Aramis always had the inclination to forget about his own needs if any of them were wounded, but now…

 

D’Artagnan watched the medic, who was sprawled against Porthos. One hand was laid flat on Porthos’ chest, feeling the reassuring beat of his friend’s heart.  His other hand was fisted in the big man’s shirt. Aramis’ face was hidden in Porthos’ arms. He was completely still, except for the intermittent shivers that hit him. They ran through his body, visible even through blankets. D’Artagnan looked around for a spare blanket. Finding none, he covered the marksman with his cloak.

 

Porthos growled, and pushed Aramis away with feverish desperation. The medic protested weakly, and tried to regain the source of his warmth. Porthos, still in the clutches of a nightmare, hit the marksman, sobbing his name.

 

D’Artagnan inserted himself between them, then froze, uncertain what to do. Aramis was dazed, and the hurt in his eyes was shattering. The medic knew that his beloved brother was not lucid. Still, Porthos had pushed him away. D’Artagnan’s heart ached when he saw the resignation and despair in those brown orbs. 

 

Meanwhile, Porthos was thrashing around in obvious distress, probably grieving his brother.

 

D’Artagnan glared at the others in the room, sending a clear message to anyone who was entertaining thoughts of intervening.

 

“Porthos, wake up!” The Gascon tried to mimic Athos’ best command voice. 

 

“Porthos!” He seized the unscathed arm of the big man, and shook him fiercely. He ducked the fist which struck out at his face.

 

“Damn it, Porthos! You HURT Aramis!!” he cried out in despair. 

 

“Aramis is dead!” Porthos sobbed.

 

“No…” Aramis gently touched Porthos’ face. Pain seemed to radiate from him. D’Artagnan cursed under his breath. Usually Aramis never paid attention to the mutterings of his feverish brothers. In fact, he had often comforted the Gascon when the boy had been distressed by comments made by a drunk Athos.

 

“He died. I did not save him. I failed him!”  whispered Porthos.

 

“Porthos! I am here!!” Aramis sounded desperate.

 

Porthos finally opened his eyes. Confused, he stared at Aramis’ pale face. 

 

“Mis! Come here, brother,” he murmured softly.

 

And Aramis obeyed.

 

_ Like a beaten dog… No! I cannot watch him act like this. He trusts Porthos. He trusts that Porthos won’t hurt him on purpose. And that explains everything. Doesn't it?  _

 

Aramis took Porthos’ hand, and placed it on his chest. 

 

“I am alive. Can you feel my heartbeat?” his voice was soothing. 

 

Porthos nodded.

 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

 

The medic smiled sadly, and motioned to d’Artagnan to pass him a cup of draught. 

 

Porthos must have felt guilty, as he drank without protest, only grimacing at the bitterness of the liquid. 

 

Aramis leaned against him, so that his friend could still feel his heartbeat. 

 

_ In vain. Only Aramis was able to sleep while feeling someone’s heartbeat, then wake up when something was wrong… _

 

D’Artagnan smiled briefly at the memory of him trying to sneak away from the Spaniard. He had left a pillow under the medic’s hand. He had thought it would be enough to fool the Spaniard… but Aramis had abruptly awoken, wild panic in his eyes…

 

The Gascon could not restrain himself from stroking the marksman’s hair. Aramis murmured something unintelligible, and leaned into his touch. 

 

The rest of the night was blissfully uneventful. The musketeers broke camp in the morning. They did not think about covering their tracks. 

 

Treville decided that Porthos would ride with Philippe. He would take care of Athos. D’Artagnan was paired with Aramis. He caught a glimpse of Athos’ gaze, which betrayed  the older man;s involvement in the Captain’s decision. 

 

Aramis’ lack of protest was disturbing. The medic, wrapped up in two blankets, sat propped against the wall. He looked so pale and fragile. Treville knelt near him. They talked for a moment, their voices inaudible. Aramis nodded slowly, and Captain gave him one of his pistols. 

 

D’Artagnan nervously checked on Nuit and her saddle. The mare nuzzled his neck.

“No apple for you, my girl,” murmured the Gascon softly. The supplies for the animals were running short, and the horses were hungry.

 

“Mount up!” ordered Treville. He helped Athos into the saddle. The musketeer leaned on him heavily, his breath coming out in short gasps. Marc was there to steady him. Together they got the poisoned musketeer into position. Treville swung up behind Athos. 

 

D’Artagnan turned his gaze from his mentor. Worry weighed heavily on his heart, but he had to focus on Aramis.

 

He smiled briefly at the marksman. 

“Are you able to stand?”

 

Aramis nodded. He grasped d’Artagnan’s hand, and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. He immediately became dizzy. The Gascon seemed to be the only thing holding him upright. Slowly, he regained his balance. 

 

“Come.” D’Artagnan directed him towards the door, pointing him towards Nuit. Aramis surprised him by trying to mount as soon as he reached the horse--and he succeeded, although he face was bathed in sweat. 

 

“You’re a fool,” muttered d’Artagnan. He sat behind Aramis, and wrapped an arm securely around his friend. He closed his eyes, thankful to be holding the medic alive in his arms.  Aramis allowed him to support some of his weight. His breathing slowly evened out, and he fell asleep. 

 

The pace of their journey was terribly slow. They had to stop often, in order to give both the horses and the injured riders a break. They switched horses at each stop. In this way, each beast got a respite at some point from carrying two riders.

 

The air was heavy with rain. The horses were wet, as were the musketeers’ clothes. All d’Artagnan could think about was getting to a dry, warm room. He wanted to hear a fire crackling, and smell the comforting scent of smoke and.... food. He was terribly hungry  

 

D’Artagnan suddenly felt very uneasy. He tried to figure out why he was feeling this way. They were riding in a low valley, which was surrounded by forest and rocks. With the limited visibility, it was an ideal place for an ambush.

 

He did not know what spurred him to act, but he squeezed Aramis’ arm,feeling a need to warn the man. He felt the marksman nod against his arm.  

 

Suddenly, d’Artagnan sensed that a gun was pointed at them. He threw himself from the horse, Aramis in his arms. They landed hard on the muddy path, which was strewn with rocks. The uneven terrain, however, gave them a bit of cover.

 

The fall elicited a cry of pain from the Spaniard. D’Artagnan jumped to his feet, his sword in his hand. 

 

He glanced at his companions. The men were trying to create a protective ring around Athos and Porthos, but the Gascon realized they were too far away to be of any real help. 

 

A shot rang out, and a scream followed from somewhere off in the trees. D’Artagnan looked over at Aramis, who was propped up on his elbow, his eyes searching for another target.

 

A bullet hit the ground near Aramis, creating a little fountain of mud. The marksman ignored it, waiting for another opportunity. It came after another shot from the enemy. This time, a body hit the ground.

 

There was a rustling and snapping of branches, and Aramis fired once more. A short cry was the only reply. Then silence prevailed. Aramis closed his eyes, and his gun slipped from his slack hand. 

 

D’Artagnan could not breathe. He dropped to his knees. 

 

“Aramis!! ARAMIS! Where are you hit?”

 

It was impossible to see blood under all the mud. 

 

The  marksman slowly opened his eyes, and appeared confused.

 

“Wake me up for the bath,” he mumbled. He would fallen face first into a puddle if not for d’Artagnan’s quick reflexes.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for the delay in update. I am afraid that it may happen again and again. However rest assured that I plan to finish this story (and to write a sequel).  
> Thank you for all your comments!


	56. Chapter 56

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

Aramis

 

Voices rose and fell around him. He did not feel the need to understand them, or even to focus on them. All he wanted--all he really needed--was a tub full of hot water.

But.... He was vaguely aware that he was kneeling in something wet and cold. Not a pleasant feeling, but it was better than….

_ Better than what?! _

He shook his head to clear his both his thoughts and his vision, but he remained confused, and in darkness. 

“Aramis!! Aramis, look at me!” D’Artagnan’s voice sounded so scared.

“Where are you hit??”

_ Too many questions… too many commands… have I not taught you how to address a semi-conscious person? _

_ “ _ Aramis, talk to me!”

The marksman's forehead found a nice support, which he presumed was d’Artagnan’s arm. 

“How badly is he injured?” a gruff voice asked. Aramis knew he should answer.

“I don’t know, sir.”  There was panic in the Gascon’s voice, as well as an unspoken plea for help.

“ARAMIS!!!” Porthos’ yell did not allow the medic to ask who was wounded. There was a splash of mud when someone landed near him. D’Artagnan disappeared suddenly. If not for the hot hands cupping his face, Aramis’ head would have hit the ground.

“Aramis!!” Heat radiated from Porthos’ skin. “Look at me!!” His brother was shivering with fever. 

The medic directed his gaze towards him, but it was still too dark to see.

_ Am I blind??!!  _

Panic rose in the musketeer, and his heart beat wildly as he gasped for breath. 

“I can’t… I can’t see,” he stammered. 

“Perhaps you should open your eyes,” murmured Porthos.

_ Are my eyes closed?! _

The idea shocked Aramis, but proved to be true. When he managed to lift his eyelids, he saw Porthos’ face clearly. 

“Good. Do you know where you are?” Porthos asked.

His brother looked awful. His eyes were bright with fever, with dark circles underneath. His dark skin was nearly grey, and his cheeks were flushed. 

“You should be in bed, Porthos,” he mumbled.

“I would like nothing better, but a bed is still a day away.”

Aramis looked around. He was kneeling on a path in a muddy, leafless forest. Porthos was supporting his weight, and d’Artagnan was hovering nearby.

An anxious looking Philippe stood behind Porthos. Treville was still mounted, and held an unconscious Athos in his arms. The worried Captain watched the scene. Near him stood Marc, who obviously had been stopped by his commander. The other musketeers, accompanied by Constance, were guarding them, expecting danger to possibly come at them from any side. 

Aramis remembered the fight which had took place.

“Who’s wounded?” he asked nervously. 

“You are,” d'Artagnan replied.

The medic mentally checked his condition. He recognized his numerous injuries as old ones, although his head wound still bothered him quite a bit. 

_ An infection. So it’s an old wound.  _

“I’m fine,” the marksman declared.

“Try again,” growled d’Artagnan. 

_ When did the Pup learn to growl?  _

He reframed his answer. “No new injuries.”

“You scared me to death!” d’Artagnan grumbled.

“I’m sorry,” the medic murmured. In truth, he was too concerned about Porthos’ condition to really feel guilty. 

Aramis glanced at Treville. “Captain, are we planning to stop soon? His fever is worse.”

“We’ll stop soon for a short break.” Something in the Captain’s words made Aramis read between the lines.

“And then we’re going to continue by night,” Aramis finished for his commander. 

Treville nodded. “Marc believes it is the best solution for Athos and Porthos. Do you agree with him?”

He knew better than to treat this question as a mere courtesy. He thought for a moment, his ungloved fingers checking Porthos’ pulse. The big man accepted his examination calmly, never letting Aramis out of his sight. 

The dark skinned musketeer was in the grip of his fever now. It did not seem as if Aramis’ efforts were enough to fight it. The medic was unsure what was the best decision to make for his friend’s health… 

_ Or… Life??!! No, Porthos is not in immediate danger, and your panic isn’t helping anyone. Isn’t helping HIM. _

_ “ _ I’ll need a break, and some hot water to take care of Porthos. Than we can continue.” Aramis hated that he was not able to speak in a loud voice. He felt so exhausted…

_ First my brothers… _

He tried to get up, and was pleased that d’Artagnan helped him, rather than scolding him for trying to move. 

A spell of dizziness nearly brought him to his knees again, but the Gascon held him up. When the blackness receded, and gave way to their foggy surroundings, Aramis smiled at him with gratitude.

“Athos,” he gasped, and directed himself towards his brother. In the meantime, Philippe took care of Porthos.

“You can check on him when we stop.” Treville held him back. Aramis froze at his commander’s gesture. The solution offered by his Captain was tempting, and seemed too simple. 

“Aramis, d’Artagnan--mount up!” Treville ordered. They obeyed.

Aramis did not remember much from the rest of the journey. He had the impression that he was immersed in a cold, thick liquid. His senses, movements, and even his thoughts, became more and more sloppy.

Finally they stopped. The medic struggled to focus. 

_ My brothers need me... _

He kept repeating it, fighting to focus on acting, rather than just falling on his face. The pain from his head was slowly killing him. Each move aggravated the agony. Constant shivers tormented him, making his head feel as if it was ready to explode.

_ Like the melon Porthos shot for his birthday… will we celebrate another one of his birthdays together? No! I can’t think like this! We will! _

He shook his head vigorously, and dark spots danced before his eyes. A wave of pain tried to take him under. He stilled, waiting for it to pass. 

“Aramis?” D’Artagnan supported him gently. The medic was furious at his own weakness. How could he take care of his brothers when he was hardly able to walk on his own?!

D’Artagnan directed him to Athos, who was resting on the cloaks and blankets. His eyes were closed. 

Philippe had just lowered Porthos near him. The big man was conscious, and clearly uncomfortable. 

“How’s Athos?” he asked anxiously.

“He’s resting near you,” replied the medic. 

Aramis knelt close to his leader. He gently stroked his face. He sighed when he felt how hot and dry the skin underneath his palm was.

Athos lifted his eyelids. Aramis was relieved to see his dull blue eyes slowly focusing on him. 

“Hello there,” Aramis murmured cheerfully, trying to sound much more jovial than he really felt. 

“Still here,” replied Athos. “I guess we’re not at Fontainebleau Palace?”

“No. Can you stand to continue the journey?”

“Yeah. And you?”

“With pleasure.” Aramis smiled, suppressing a shiver.

The prospect of getting on a horse, and staying there for several long hours, filled him with dread. He felt much worse than when they had left their shelter.

“Monsieur?” Marc approached him with a cup of hot herbal tea, “I’ve prepared this for Athos. He must drink more.”

Aramis nodded his agreement. He took the cup, and cajoled Athos to drink a little. 

“You must rest,” murmured Athos. Aramis give him a hasty smile. 

“Only after a hot bath. I cannot rest with all this mud on me,” he teased, forcing his voice to remain light. He hoped desperately that hot water would dispel the inner cold that had claimed him. 

Athos watched him, clearly aware of how poor the medic felt. There was silent understanding in his blue eyes. Athos gave all he had to support his brother. 

After Athos finished his tea, Aramis moved on to Porthos. He was grateful to find that Marc had already prepared the draught and salve they needed to tend to the big man. 

“Porthos?” Aramis hated to wake up his brother now that he finally could rest in a more comfortable position.

The dark skinned musketeer mumbled something incoherently, but did not protest when Aramis started to unwind his bandage. The wound looked a little better.

_ Or I perhaps I have become delusional. _

Aramis glanced at Marc. The herbalist took a closer look at the injury. 

“It’s clearing,” he stated with relief.

They put on a new poultice, and dressed the wound. 

“You should eat something,” Aramis murmured.

“I’m not really hungry,” Porthos mumbled.

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Aramis asked teasingly. The fact that his friend was not hungry was truly alarming. 

“No!!” Porthos sounded so confused. Aramis felt guilty.

D’Artagnan came back with dried meat, fruit, and some cheese. Aramis was not sure if the cheese should be so green, but perhaps it was one of those specially aged cheeses taken from palace kitchen, not just a rotten one. 

“It’s tasty.” D’Artagnan must have read his mind. 

Aramis merely nodded. He had been nauseous the whole journey, and the break had not helped him at all. The smell of food only made him feel more sick. 

D'Artagnan placed a hand on his arm. “Aramis, you should eat.”

“I can’t.”

_ I feel too ill. I am too ill. The infection must have already taken hold of me.  _

“Is it because of this damned broth?” the Gascon asked softly.

“Which broth?”

“The broth Marc tried to feed you... you couldn’t stomach it.”

_ So it was broth… good to know. It tasted like.... _

“Aramis! Stay with me!” The Gascon’s panicked voice reached him, anchoring him in the present. He took a shaky breath.

“Sorry.” He leaned into d’Artagnan’s arms. The Gascon gently soothed him. 

“I… I’m sorry…”

“Mis, you're injured. You’re exhausted. There is nothing to apologize for… I’ve got you, brother.”

_ I should really tell him that he talks too much, but not now… _

He allowed himself to be cuddled, and slowly relaxed. D’Artagnan gently stroked his hair. 

“Lie down, Mis. It will do you good to rest a bit.”

He did not protest when the Gascon helped him lie down near Porthos. He leaned into his brother’s warmth. It seemed that he had only a few seconds of respite before d’Artagnan called his name. His tone suggested that had already called him several times. 

“We’re leaving,” the Gascon explained.

Aramis opened his eyes, squinting when grey shadows entered his vision. He felt even worse than when they had stopped a few moments ago.

D’Artagnan helped him on his feet, and then on to the horse. Aramis gripped his mount’s mane desperately, fighting the urge to vomit. He did not remember when he had last eaten. Maybe the breakfast Louise had prepared for them? However any thought of food made him feel worse, so he dropped his musings. 

_ When we arrive at the palace, I must prepare some potent draughts for myself. Otherwise, things may end in a very unpleasant way.  _

D’Artagnan wrapped his arm around him, and Aramis did not resist when the boy pulled him to his chest. He allowed himself to drift away into sleep, safe in his little brother’s arms.

He was not granted a peaceful sleep. The pain woke him up multiple times, but he never became fully conscious. 

He was dimly aware that they had stopped. D’Artagnan was talking to him, his voice insistent.

Finally, he realized that the boy wanted him to dismount. He obeyed, and nearly ended up on his knees. However, the Gascon caught him, and held him upright. He slowly led him somewhere. Aramis concentrated on walking. He did not want the Gascon to take on his full  weight. It was a slow and tedious journey. Aramis stumbled several times. Each time, d’Artagnan supported him, and murmured some platitudes. 

Finally, the medic was allowed to sit. He hoped that he would be also allowed to escape the painful reality, but d’Artagnan started to undress him. 

“What’re you doing?” the marksman slurred.

“I’m getting you out of your leathers, and into some hot water.”

“You’re joking.” Hope was clear in his voice. 

D’Artagnan chuckled, and did not stop undressing Aramis.  When the Gascon led him to the big tub of steaming water, the marksman managed to lift his heavy eyelids. The boy must have seen the true awe on his face. He smiled happily.

“Yes, we’re in the palace. We made it!”

“Athos?”

“He is resting.”

“Porthos?”

“Marc is feeding him some draughts.”

The marksman put his legs into the blissfully hot water, then immersed himself completely. The warmth slowly penetrated into his skin, and soothed the inner cold. It could not dissolve it completely, but it helped quite a bit.

Aramis hissed when the bandage on his head was unwrapped. D’Artagnan’s panicked curse caught his attention. 

“Hm?” The marksman lacked the strength for a more elaborate question. 

“Your wound looks awful.” D’Artagnan’s worried expression did not bode well.

“Infected? So wash it with water and soap. Then call Marc.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah…. But first I’d like to be a bit more dressed,” he added teasingly for the boy’s sake. 

He was humbled that the Gascon had thought to protect him from his fears, but there was no way he could deal with the injury by himself. And he could accept a stranger touching his head. He knew that his every thought and fear would be drowned in immense pain, as the wound probably needed to be drained. 

He allowed himself to relax in the blissful heat. D’Artagnan started to pour water over his hair, and the marksman welcomed the sensation. He loved to feel clean. He knew that if he were stronger, he would feel awkward under d’Artagnan’s care. So far, the only person whom he had allowed to see him so weak was Porthos.

_ I am not being so honest with myself. Athos tended to me a few times, but if I had been more lucid, I would not have felt comfortable.  _

_ And once again I am lying to myself. I like to be cared for. I like it so much that I am ashamed of it.  _

“Aramis? Are you with me? Don’t fall asleep yet. Do you hear me?”

The medic murmured, pulled himself out of his musing. D’Artagnan threw a towel over his head. The material touched the wound, and Aramis hissed as it ignited a overwhelming, dull pain. 

When he became aware of his surroundings once again, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in the fresh towels. The fire was roaring in the fireplace, but he shivered from cold. Immediately blankets were put on him. D’Artagnan smiled sadly at him.

The room was far bigger than their last quarters in the palace. It was brightly lit with several candles. 

Aramis could clearly discern his other two brothers lying in beds. Marc was tending to Athos, feeding him some sort of draught.

“Monsieur, just give me a moment, and then I will come to take care of you,” the herbalist said in a low voice. 

Aramis merely nodded. It suddenly occurred to him that this had been a mistake, as darkness threatened to take him away. The pain reached the awful level of a seriously infected wound. 

_ It’s good that no doctor will propose to chop off my head to save my life.  _

Marc was saying something. Aramis could not focus on the words. But he knew what would come next. He grabbed a piece of material, biting down on it to muffle his cries of pain. Athos and Porthos did not need to hear them. D’Artagnan grasped his hand, and he squeezed it hard. 

He tried to imagine the pain, but it was beyond all imagining. He tried to wriggle away from it, and at first he succeeded. Then several hands caught him and held him down. The agony became his only reality. There was no escape from it. He did not know why he was meant to suffer so cruelly. There was only the abyss full of pain.

His final punishment. 

His eternal punishment. 

The fire of the inferno.


	57. Chapter 57

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance's POV

Constance

She left the musketeers after they arrived at the Palace. One reason was to give the men some privacy, but she also needed some time for herself.

She sank gratefully into the hot bath water that the servants had brought. She rarely took advantage of her position as the Queen's confidant, but this time, she felt utterly justified. It was one of the few privileges she actually used when she stayed at court.

When she had lived with Jacques, she had rarely allowed herself the pleasure of hot water. It had been simply too expensive, and had taken up too much time. So when she had seen the servants bring in the tub and start to fill it with water, she had shivered in anticipation.

Constance would have been happy to spend the entire night soaking in the tub- provided that someone added hot water from time to time. She closed her eyes and relaxed. Sleep slowly came upon her, wrapping her in the calm warmth she had dreamed of since the day they had been taken from the Palace.

_The meadow was bright with the summer sun. They were alone, sitting under some old oak trees which gave them some shade. They sought the shelter of the high grass, not to hide from any enemies, but to hide from the entire world. To hide in their love._

_She leaned towards d'Artagnan. Her lips had nearly touched his when she smiled happily. Gold rings were on their fingers, serving as a testimony to the oath they had made._

" _You're my wife! Mine to love, mine to cherish, mine to desire!" D'Artagnan's eyes were fixed on hers._

" _Don't forget, husband, that the feeling is mutual," she murmured, and lowered her face to kiss him. She wanted to be patient, and tried to just slowly taste his mouth. She really tried..._

A scream brutally cut through her dream just at the moment she had decided to tear off her lover's - her husband's - shirt.

She jumped out of the tub, nearly falling when she slipped on the wet floor. In her desperate haste, she struggled to put on her clothes in such a way that she could at least leave the room. Obviously, a wet dress without a corset was a highly inappropriate outfit, at this point, a weapon belt was more important. She stormed into the room next to her, rapier in hand, then froze as Aramis screamed again.

He was squirming in his bed, held down by Porthos, d'Artagnan, and Treville. Marc appeared to be cleaning the musketeer's head wound.

Aramis had a rag in his mouth, which probably had muffled his cries when he had been lucid enough to bite down on it. Now, the pain seemed to have taken over.

A gasp pulled Constance out of her shock. She glanced around, and saw Athos trying to get up. It was useless to try to keep him away from his suffering brother. She was at his side in an instant, and helped him to stand up. However, she was not ready to support the musketeer's weight. When he lost his balance, she stumbled. She hissed when her leg hit the bed, but another muffled scream made her forget about her own discomfort.

The swordsman made a frantic effort to get to Aramis. She steadied him, then let him set the pace as they moved towards the bed. No one could help her, as they were all focused on keeping their hold on Aramis.

She could not see the wound from where she was, but she could smell an odor that reminded her of rotting meat. It immediately made her feel nauseous. Such a smell was to be expected from beef that had not been cared for properly, but not from a human being!

Athos swayed, and Constance helped him sit down on Aramis' bed. She glanced at the swordsman, then regretted it immediately. She knew she would never forget the look of utter fear on his usually composed face.

She let her eyes wander. Marc was completely focused on the wound. Porthos was gripping Aramis' arm, his face wet from tears which disappeared into his beard. Treville seemed to be calm, but the worry in his eyes belied his true emotions.

D'Artagnan held Aramis' head firmly. His head was bowed, his face hidden behind his hair.

The marksman made one last desperate attempt to avoid the pain, then went limp. Constance sighed in relief, grateful that he would not suffer any more.

Then she realized that Marc was frantically searching for the medic's pulse.

_No. This is not happening!_

She heard Porthos gasp.

_No. It is not true. No!_

Everything in her screamed for her to wake up from this nightmare. If Aramis was dead, she knew without a doubt that she would lose all of them.

After what seemed like forever, Marc murmured, "He is still alive."

She heard someone thank God for His mercy. Was it Treville? She was not sure.

Marc went back to the wound. Since Aramis was now unconscious, the herbalist could work faster. She reached for Aramis and touched his hand. She flinched when she felt how cold and lifeless it was.

They sat in silence, watching Marc put a fresh poultice on the injury.

"It will bleed for a while. It is too infected to close right now."

_It is all my fault. I let the wound fester. I should have cleaned it better._

"Get more blankets, and some hot stones," the herbalist announced. "He needs to be kept warm." She could see the worry in his eyes.

_Is he also worried about what will happen to him if the unthinkable happens?_

He eyed Aramis and Porthos. "Messieurs, you should lie down." The dark skinned musketeer shook his head.

"We will take care of it," Treville intervened."But I must ask, what are his chances?"

Porthos froze, looking as if a gun had been pointed directly at his face.

"It's too early to say… his wound is badly infected. We will have to change the poultice every two hours. I have prepared a draught for you to give to him if he regains consciousness."

"If?!" Constance gasped.

He shifted uncomfortably. "I mean-if it happens tonight-and I am not here."

He was lying. She felt it.

"We do not need your lies, Monsieur." Athos' voice was low and dangerous.

Marc took a step back. He was afraid of what he saw in the pale musketeer's eyes.

"The truth, please!" Porthos snapped. There was a murderous glint in his eyes-a silent promise of what he might do if he did not like the truth he had demanded.

The herbalist felt cornered. He glanced at Treville, but Captain's face was a mask.

"The next two days will be crucial. He is utterly exhausted. It is difficult to say if he has enough strength left to beat the infection."

Porthos' expression hardened. "Mis is a fighter. He will win this battle."

The big man gently cupped the marksman's face. He leaned over him, almost managing to hide the pain his slowly healing wound caused him. "You have to! Do you hear me?"

Constance waited for a reply to Porthos' plea. It seemed so wrong when one never came.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in!" Treville remained sitting on Aramis' bed, but his gun was quickly aimed at the door.

"Captain!" Etienne came in. He had obviously just arrived. His hair was soaked, the water running down his leather in small rivulets. His hat, which he held in his hand, resembled a wet rag rather than a serviceable piece of clothing.

"How is he?" he asked, his shocked eyes focused on Aramis' still form.

"Bad. Help me to push these beds together, and then we will leave, and have a talk."

Etienne helped lay Porthos down once the four beds had been joined together. He cringed when he felt the heat of his companion's skin. He knew better than to keep his commander waiting, so he covered Porthos with a blanket, then approached d'Artagnan's sweetheart.

"Constance, this is for you. It's from the Queen." He bowed slightly, then gave her the parchment.

She broke the seal, aware that the Captain was watching her.

_Dear Constance,_

_I hope my letter finds you in good health. I believe that Athos' condition has improved._

Constance nearly choked on this line.

_Still, feel free to stay with the Musketeers as long as you are needed._

_However, when you are back in Paris, please come to the Palace, as I wish to speak to you._

_I am aware of the order my husband gave the musketeers. If you wish to follow them, do not hesitate-just let me know._

_May God keep you all safe._

_Anne._

Constance folded the letter.

_He did not keep them safe. Nor me. And you, my Queen, are alone...with assassins in Paris._

The bitterness of her thoughts surprised her.

_What had the King's orders been? What had he demanded of his wounded men?_

She was really scared.

She lifted her head when Deroux came in. She felt relieved, as she did not completely trust Marc. Moreover, as the man was fond of repeating, he was an herbalist, not a physician.

"I am glad to see you, Monsieur." She gave him a sad smile.

He greeted her, then asked, "May I take a look at the patients?"

Constance motioned for him to approach the injured musketeers, then left the room in order to give them some privacy. However, she was too nervous to go far. She simply stood in front of the door, and waiting.

A few minutes later, she saw Treville at the end of the corridor, and ran towards him.

"What happened?!" he asked, looking anxiously at the young woman.

"Sir, I… have no right to ask, but the Queen gave me permission to follow Athos' group when they carry out the King's orders…"

She cast a quick glance towards the door of the room where the injured men were being kept.

He must have noticed, as he nodded slightly, and took her by the arm, accompanying her to the door.

She gave him a grateful smile.

"The King has granted his wife's request, and will allow Athos' party to recover at a small estate south of Paris. The Queen received it as a gift from a noble family, but it is really too small for their Majesties."

"That's wonderful news! Do you think it is safe?"

"I think we will wait until they are fit to ride. However, I believe it will be good for them. Now, if you will excuse me… tell Deroux to come find me when he's ready." He left.

She nodded, and focused on trying to wait patiently. She leaned against the wall, but could not remain still for long. She decided to practice her sparring technique, but soon became frustrated, convinced that she was making a terrible amount of mistakes.

Eventually, Deroux opened the door and let her in. He did not seem surprised.

"So?" she asked breathlessly.

"Monsieur Porthos should be on the mend soon. As for the other two - only time will tell. I need you, Madame, to work with Monsieur Athos. You must coax him to drink a lot of fluids, and then slowly get him to begin to eat. Start with a very light broth. Don't be discouraged if he's not able to keep it down at the beginning. No matter what, he must try. We need for him to start eating."

"What about Aramis?" she asked.

He was silent for a moment.

"I am afraid that his body no longer has the strength to fight. He is a young man, but he is beyond exhausted. I tried to give him some water, but he could not swallow it. So we must wait until he is more awake. However, the fact that he is still unconscious doesn't bode well for him. If he doesn't wake up in the next twenty four hours, I fear for his life."

"Can we do anything for him?"

"Not much...but you can change the poultice every two hours. Keep him warm and… care for him."

"We will," she whispered, glancing on the musketeer, who lay still. His face was partially covered by the dressing. Only one closed eye was visible. Marc had not taken the time to make the dressing less cumbersome, as he did not expect Aramis to regain consciousness any time soon.

_He will panic if he wakes up like this._

She sighed sadly.

_It is my fault that his condition is so bad. I did not clean his wound properly._

The weight of her guilt made her want to flee from the room...from these men whom she loved with all her heart.

They had taught her what it meant to love.

This man, who was dying because of her negligence, had taught her what it meant to be loved as a sister.

"Constance?" D'Artagnan stood near her.

"It's my fault!" she whispered, unable to tear her gaze away from Aramis.

"What do you mean, my child?" Deroux asked, looking troubled.

"If I had cleaned the wound properly, the infection would not have taken hold of him in such a terrible way."

"Constance, we were in conditions that were primitive at best. There was no way you could give him the care he needed in that situation." D'Artagnan seemed convinced that she was blameless.

She turned to face him, and burst out, "Didn't you hear the doctor? Porthos is on the mend! Aramis was able to save him-in the same primitive conditions! With the same scarce supplies!" Now she could feel the tears streaming down her face.

"Madame, Monsieur Porthos was lucky enough to not have been poisoned or whipped any time recently. In addition, he did not suffer significant damage from a fall."

"Significant damage?!" her heart sank. D'Artagnan seemed to be the only thing preventing her from crumpling on the floor. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "We…. we assumed that we could exclude any… serious injury…"

"Yes and no. I think it is safe to say now that none of his injuries were very serious…" She sensed hesitation in his voice.

"However, he has sustained many of them, and they have weakened him significantly. Still, there is hope, so please do not despair, Madame." He gave her a slight smile, which was apparently meant to be encouraging, but did not quite succeed. "Do you wish me to stay?"

Constance bit her lip, not sure what answer to give him. Athos and Porthos were already asleep. Only she and d'Artagnan were left to keep vigil. They were both tired from the long journey, and she was not sure if she would be able to stay awake all night. Still, it was Aramis, and having a stranger care for him…made her uncomfortable.

_When did I start thinking like a musketeer?_

"We'll call you if we need you," d'Artagnan said.

"I make sure that food is sent for you," the doctor promised.

"Doctor!" At the last moment, she remembered to tell him of Treville's request.

Deroux nodded, then left.

"Constance." D'Artagnan guided her over to the spare bed, and sat down next to her. "Aramis will make it. You didn't use his medical kit when you treated him, did you?"

"We used the one Calbert had."

"So you did not have a chance to treat Aramis with the same potent herbs he used on Porthos. They were not in Calbert's kit. And Aramis did not want to "waste them," as he says, on himself. He always puts others first."

D'Artagnan glanced at the motionless marksman. "He will make it," he murmured, then echoed Porthos' words from earlier. "Aramis, I hope you can hear me."

Once again, Constance held her breath, hoping to hear a clever remark from the wounded man. However, the Spaniard remained silent.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any special wishes about our boys' recovery (or not), tell me please. I cannot grant it but I'll try.


	58. Chapter 58

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos' POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Lady_Neve

 

Athos

 

He was comfortable. He was lying in a soft bed. Under his fingers, he could feel silk sheets. His thoughts involuntarily rushed to Anne. He could almost believe that he would hear her voice--and feel her tender lips on his.

 

_ Enough! You’d better wake up, instead of dreaming about the past you’ve been cursing for so many years. _

 

Athos opened his eyes. The rising sun gave off a mellow golden light, making the room look brighter. Even Aramis’ pale face looked healthier. Then the memories came back, and Athos could hear his friend’s screams in his head. He was relieved to see that the marksman was sleeping peacefully. Reaching out, he took his brother’s hand in his. It was limp and cold. 

 

_ If he regains consciousness… if… _

 

Athos gasped as the memory seized hold of his mind. D’Artagnan lifted his head at the sound. He was sitting on another bed, watching a sleeping Constance. He gently untangled himself from his sweetheart, and approached Athos. 

 

“Hey.” The boy managed a smile, but there was no mirth in his eyes. “How do you feel?”

 

“I’m fine,” muttered Athos, his throat still too dry to speak comfortably.  “How's Aramis?”

 

“No change,” murmured the Gascon.

 

Fear suddenly started to flood into Athos’ thoughts, and he squeezed the marksman’s hand..

 

D’Artagnan, seeing his friend’s despair, sought to distract him by handing him a cup of tea. “Here, drink this while I go get some broth for you. The doctor was adamant that you have to start to consume things that resemble food, rather than just water mixed with dried plants.”   

 

The liquid tasted surprisingly good compared to most herbal brews, it had helped him in the past, so the swordsman drank it without protest. 

 

“How’s Porthos?” Athos asked when he finished. The tea had soothed the irritating dryness of his mouth, but he knew the relief was only temporary.

 

“He is sleeping peacefully.”

 

“With Aramis at death’s door? He must be unconscious to be lying so peacefully!” Now Athos was really worried.

 

“Not quite. After he woke up earlier in the evening, he insisted on keeping vigil over Aramis. Deroux didn’t want to jeopardize his recovery, so he gave him some special wine.”

 

“So he drugged him?”

 

“Exactly.” D’Artagnan gave him a wry smile. “And don't think for a second he won't do the same exact thing to you if he feels it is warranted.”

 

Athos sighed. It was a tempting offer, but he could not allow himself to rest. Obviously, his body still needed sleep, but he had already spent too much time in bed. His brothers needed him now. Porthos shared a close bond with Aramis, and the big man had not yet  recovered from his wounds. 

 

_ You cannot leave d’Artagnan to take care of Porthos by himself. _

 

“I’ll bring you some broth. You need to eat something.”

 

Athos said nothing. For the first time since he had been poisoned, he did not feel sick to his stomach. He was tempted to fast in order to keep the nausea at bay. Especially because he did not feel hungry. He knew that was not necessarily a good sign.

 

He closed his eyes. He was quite comfortably stretched out in the bed, glad to not be curled up in the saddle in front of the Captain. The sheets were clean and soft to the touch, and there were several blankets. The room was warm. Definitely the situation had improved significantly.

 

There was a quiet knock at the door. Athos pulled out his dagger from under the pillow, and called for the visitor to enter.

 

Deroux came in. He smiled warmly at the swordsman. 

 

“It is good to see you awake, Monsieur,” he said, his voice cheerful.

 

Athos gave him a brief nod. He was not really in the mood to talk, but he had one important question to ask.

 

“How are they?”

 

Deroux sighed. “I intended to ask how you felt, Monsieur, before I checked on your friends.”

 

“I’m fine. How are they?”

 

Deroux started to examine Aramis. Athos moved slightly, in order to have a better view. He was quite surprised at how weak he was. Thankfully, no sharp pain shot through his body in response to his movement. 

 

The doctor concentrated on the marksman, uncovering his wound. Athos’ medical knowledge was limited, but he knew enough to be alarmed at the fact that Aramis’ flesh was an angry red. Even more worrisome were the streaks of green pus.

 

“But… we changed the poultice every two hours..just as you instructed…”  whispered  Constance. Athos could not see her from where he was sitting, but he could hear the terror in her voice. 

 

“I know you did,” the doctor replied softly. He palpated the skin around the wound. Aramis did not respond. Athos closed his eyes for a moment in order to try to fight off the fear building up in his heart. 

 

“I must clean it thoroughly once more. It is actually fortunate that he is unconscious. That way, he won’t suffer.”

 

“And his chances?” Athos needed to know.

 

“He still has some,” Deroux answered calmly. 

 

“If Porthos is asleep..and Aramis dies...he will never forgive me for allowing him to be drugged.” Athos let his grim words hang in the silent room. 

 

Deroux eyed the musketeer carefully.

“He seems relatively stable, so I doubt he will take a turn for the worse in the next few hours. It’s better to give Porthos an opportunity to regain some strength.”

 

_ What for? To grieve Aramis?! I have never seen Porthos as unstable as he is now… He desperately needs the Aramis he knew to be back, healthy and joyful at his side. But even if Aramis survives, he is unlikely to get his wish… _

 

Athos watched the doctor’s hands as Deroux cleaned the wound. The injured musketeer did not as much as twitch, and worry flooded the swordsman’s thoughts.

 

Deroux redressed the wound, then left.

 

“Constance?” Athos spoke up as soon as the doctor closed the door.

 

“Yes?” She moved to stand next to his bed. He saw the streaks of tears on her face.

 

“Aramis is a fighter. He’ll survive.” Although his voice was soft, there was little hope in his tone.

 

“It’s all my fault. I could have cleaned the wound better!” she burst out.

 

“He wanted to be left in the forest, but you refused to allow it. You gave him the best care you possibly could.”

 

“And apparently it wasn’t enough,” she said bitterly. “Athos, I basically killed him, so please stop trying to console me. I don’t deserve it.”

 

“Constance…”

 

She shook her head.

 

“Athos, there’s nothing you can say or do. I’m sorry.” She wanted to say something else, but d’Artagnan entered the room with a tray with food. He sat down next to Athos, and offered him a cup of broth. 

 

The swordsman sniffed carefully, but the smell had no effect on him. He risked a small sip. The liquid was really light, merely water with some hints of fat and herbs. He took another sip, and gave the cup back to d’Artagnan.

 

D’Artagnan seemed disappointed, but did not insist that his mentor drink any more. Athos lay down, and closed his eyes. He could feel nausea slowly building inside him, and desperately hoped he would be able to sleep through the worst. He did not have to wait long for darkness to claim him.

 

_ “Olivier, I am very disappointed with you.” Athos’ father gave him a disgusted look. “First you destroyed your brother and your wife. Could you possibly have been more stupid? I don’t think so. If you did not want to believe him, you should have stood by Anne’s side till the end. But no… you allowed her to kill Thomas, only to murder her afterwards. But wait--I forgot, you also managed to destroy your unborn heir in the process. And then you abandoned your lands. You have damaged everything you have ever touched. And then, you came to Paris to destroy Musketeers. Do you remember that boy who took the bullet instead of you? Robert--that was his name, wasn’t it? You have left so many bodies behind you. But now you’ve changed your style. You don’t leave bodies behind you, but broken souls.  _

 

_ Aramis, Constance--they gave themselves to save you. Do you remember the fear in Constance’s eyes when she pleaded to be raped in order to save your miserable life? She was so terrified. She did not shield herself with resignation and detachment as Aramis did… so as a result, you have destroyed the love of your protege. And you’ve also destroyed the brotherhood you shared with Porthos and Aramis. Are you proud of yourself? You should be. I’ve never known anyone who was such a master at killing the people he loves. Congratulations, Olivier.”  His father smiled cruelly. _

 

_ “No! How dare you?!”  Athos threw a punch at his father… only to hit Treville. The hatred in his commander’s eyes was enough to stop the swordsman’s hand.  _

 

_ “You’ve taken my best men, Athos. I will never forgive you.” _

 

_ “No!” He wanted to scream, but he knew that everything that had been said to him was true. So he merely bowed his head. It was then that he realized he was kneeling near a fresh grave. He looked at the little board nailed to the wooden cross, instinctively knowing what name he would find there.  _

 

_ Fresh tears stung his eyes. _

 

He opened his eyes and stared at the sculpted ceiling of the room.  He angrily wiped away the tear that was cooling his cheek. He cursed under his breath when he realized that his pillow was wet from his tears. He really should have better control upon himself. 

 

He felt incredibly thirsty, so he reached out the cup standing on the little table near his bed. He drained half of the cup in a few swallows, then realized it was the broth d’Artagnan had brought. He immediately felt his stomach start to churn. The last thing he needed was to be sick again. 

 

He realized that only Porthos and Aramis remained in the room with him. Both men seemed unconscious. 

 

Why was he by himself with them? It seemed strange, but before he could start to worry, a wave of nausea hit him hard. Desperate to avoid vomiting in bed, he managed to throw himself on the floor seconds before his stomach began to heave.

 

His stomach rid itself of everything he had drank, which admittedly was not much. However, the heaving did not subside. Athos tried to breathe through the pain, but had no success. He started to gasp for air, which only increased his nausea. His body expelled only a small amount of bile, but it was enough to cause him to choke.

 

The coughing seemed to tear his abused body apart. He curled up on the floor, trembling.

 

_ I should not fight to breathe… _

 

But his body refused to give in. Suddenly, he felt someone support his body, easing him into a more upright position. He was leaning against something now.

 

A familiar voice whispered in his ear. “Breathe, Athos, breathe!”

  
One hand stabilized his position, while another started to draw small circles on his back. He whimpered when the touch disappeared, but in its place, he felt something warm pressed against his stomach. His cramped muscles seemed to relax, and he leaned into the soothing presence of his brother. The only disturbing thing was the temperature of his brother’s skin--it was ice cold. 


	59. Chapter 59

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' POV

Porthos

 

He knew he should be awake, but the edge of consciousness was still out of his reach. He tried again to focus, but he failed. Once more, darkness and oblivion claimed him. He was not dreaming, but he sensed that nightmares, like crows hovering near a dying man, were lying in wait for him. He could feel that they were near, but he knew he should not think about them, lest he summon them before their time came. 

 

_ Crows… crows pecking at the dead. Aramis! _

_ Was Aramis dead?! _

_ I watched him die. _

_ So many times… _

_ It cannot be true. He could not possibly have died from so many different wounds, in so many different situations… _

_ So they were nightmares. _

 

_ I feel so strange. I must be ill. _

_ But what about the funeral? Did I go? _

_ Was there a funeral? Aramis’ funeral? _

 

_ How could I have slept if my beloved brother was dead?!! _

 

_ Quite easily...if I was drugged or just drank myself into a stupor. I’ve never done it because of grief, but Athos is an excellent teacher...even if it is by example. _

 

“ARAMIS!!!!” The trepidation in the scream was enough to wake him abruptly. Porthos sat up without thinking. The pull of his wound could not hold him back. 

 

All he could see was a panicked d’Artagnan, who was standing in the doorway with a large tray in his hands. Porthos followed the boy’s gaze, and saw that he was only occupant of the large cot, which had probably been created by shoving three or four beds together. The configuration was strange. It was the only bed in that room. 

 

“Where is Aramis?!” he blurted out, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach.

 

Was his brother kidnapped or dead? Or had he just disappeared of his own free will? If so, considering the Gascon’s reaction, that could easily lead to one of two possible outcomes. 

 

D’Artagnan dropped to his knees, and shoved the tray to the side.

 

“Aramis! My God… Athos…”

 

Porthos threw himself in the direction of the Gascon, and froze. Now he could see all his three of his brothers, but the sight was not reassuring. D’Artagnan was hovering near two silhouettes, which were entangled together. The marksman was sitting propped up against the wall.  Athos, wrapped in a blanket, was lying in his arms. The Spaniard’s chin rested on the top of his brother’s head.

 

Porthos could not see Athos’ face, as it was buried against Aramis’ chest. The medic’s eyes were closed, and his face was alarmingly pale.

 

“God! I was only gone a few minutes, I swear! I know I should have waited for Constance to return… but I thought she would have been back by now…I should go fetch Deroux!” D’Artagnan was beside himself with guilt.

 

Porthos gently squeezed his arm. “Calm down. Don’t fetch anyone before I assess Aramis’ state of mind. We cannot afford him to have him lash out at someone while he is in protective mode….and he cannot afford to waste any more energy.”

 

Porthos knelt in front of his brother.

 

“Aramis, it’s me, Porthos. Can you hear me? Aramis…”

 

His brother did not stir. Porthos sighed and slowly reached out with his hand. He touched Aramis’ face gently, and froze when his eyelids fluttered.

 

“Mis?”

 

_ Will you recognize me? Or will your eyes remind me of a wild animal that has been cornered by a predator? _

 

The medic slowly opened his eyes. He was clearly confused. 

 

Porthos held his breath as he watched his brother’s gaze wander aimlessly around the room.  As the medic’s sluggish eyes focused on Porthos’ face, he tightened his grip on Athos.  For a moment he simply stared, and the dark skinned musketeer silently prayed that he would see a spark of recognition in his brother’s brown eyes.

 

Finally, a small smile appeared on Aramis’ lips. 

 

“Porthos…” His voice was inaudible, but Porthos had no trouble reading his own name on his brother’s lips.

 

“It’s good to see you awake,” murmured Porthos. He could not resist the urge to pull Aramis into his arms. The marksman and Athos both leaned into his embrace. The swordsman, still asleep, mumbled a few incoherent words, then was silent.

 

D'Artagnan could not remain quiet longer. “What on earth happened?”

 

Aramis, overwhelmed by fatigue, closed his eyes, and licked his cracked lips.

 

“Athos got sick,” he rasped.

 

Porthos, not willing to lose physical contact with Aramis for even a moment, motioned for d’Artagnan to pass him a cup of water. Aramis’ eyes focused on it. He licked his lips again, this time in nervous expectation. 

 

“Drink,” murmured Porthos, holding the cup to his brother’s mouth. “But small sips--I don’t want you getting sick too.”

 

Aramis drank greedily, then leaned his head against Porthos’ arm.

 

“Why are you on the floor?”

 

“Don’t know. Athos was. He was choking.”

 

“And did the noise wake you up?”

 

Aramis nodded against his arm. His head did not seem to be causing him much pain, but Porthos was not sure if that was a good sign. He was not reassured by the pallor and temperature of his brother’s skin.

  
  


Porthos, his brain still foggy, observed his ailing brothers for a moment. All of a sudden, he had a suspicion as to why he had not heard nothing. He had been unconscious. 

 

“You drugged me!” he said accusingly , turning towards d’Artagnan.

 

“Not personally,” the young man protested, raising his hands. “You did need rest,” he mumbled, averting his gaze.

“I needed to keep vigil at my brother’s bedside!” Porthos snapped.

 

“Only if you want to perpetually repeat the darkly comic scenario where one of us sacrifices his own health in the process of caring for another,” murmured Aramis.

 

“Says who?!” the dark skinned musketeer challenged. Aramis, remaining silent, pressed his forehead against the big man’s hand. A shiver passed through the marksman’s body, and he hissed in pain.

 

“What hurts?” Porthos asked, a worried expression on his face..

 

“Could you help Athos into bed? This floor is very uncomfortable..not to mention freezing cold,” Aramis murmured. 

 

Porthos felt ashamed that he had not thought of this himself.  “I’m sorry,”  he mumbled.

 

The medic squeezed his hand in response, but his eyes remained closed. Porthos gently lowered Aramis’ head, resting it against the wall. Then he started to entangle Athos from the medic’s arms.. His brother protested incoherently.

 

Porthos chuckled. “When has this one become so tactile?”

 

Aramis did not bother to open his eyes. “Poison affects different people in different ways.”

 

“I think I like him this way. He is cute!”

 

“He’s suffering, Porthos.” The marksman’s voice was sad. 

 

“The doctor told him to eat. He needs food,”  d’Artagnan added softly.

 

“I know.” The medic heaved a sigh. “The problem is that he has not eaten for so long...and his stomach was abused by the poison… that’s why he cannot keep down what he has eaten... and the heaving is very painful.”  His voice faded as fatigue overwhelmed him. 

 

_ When will this ordeal end? How much longer will they have to suffer?  _

 

Porthos blinked rapidly, trying to banish the moisture in his eyes. He felt much better, but his low grade fever had caused him to become emotional…or perhaps he just wanted to blame the fever.

 

Athos slowly lifted his head. He stared at Aramis, his eyes filled with confusion.

 

“Are we dead?” he murmured.

 

This time the medic opened his eyes. He was silent for a moment, as if he was considering how to answer.

 

“No. We’re both alive, and that is why I’d prefer to be in the bed, not under it.” He smiled at his brother. The warmth slowly reached his eyes, dispelling some of the haunted look in them. It seemed as if Aramis’ eyes had caught a ray of the setting sun, which gave off the glow of fading daylight.

 

That thought made Porthos’ heart ache. He suddenly was aware of how much he loved his brother. He allowed the sight in front of him to warm his soul, which had frozen with fear for his brothers. For Aramis.

 

Porthos suddenly realized that he could now breathe more easily, and could finally feel a sense of hope. He relaxed, and observed his injured brothers.

 

Aramis gently stroked Athos’ cheek.

 

“How do you feel?” he asked softly. “And give me the truth, please.”

“Much better. Just tired.” 

 

“I can’t tell if you have a fever.” Aramis sighed.  “Nonetheless, I think we should climb into bed, and give our friends a chance to clean up the mess on the floor.”

 

Athos bowed his head in shame.

 

“Really?! You’re embarrassed about vomiting because you were poisoned? After all the times you’ve thrown up when you were drunk out of your mind, without batting an eye? You still amaze me, Athos.” Aramis’ voice, barely audible, was like the rustle of dry leaves.

 

“So do you.” Athos was serious. “They told me you may not wake up… and then I find myself waking up in your arms, with you soothing me!!”

 

“Well, I have to admit that waking up to find my brother choking on the floor is not my favorite way to wake up from a sound sleep.”  Aramis closed his eyes again, and Porthos felt the urge to check on him.

 

“Mis?!”

 

Aramis only hummed in response, clearly too tired to do anything more.

 

“I’m sorry,” murmured Athos. He allowed d’Artagnan to help into bed. 

 

Porthos saw one of the previously heated stones on the floor. He looked at the medic lying limp in his arms, and could not figure out how his brother had managed to reach it. He frantically checked Aramis’ hands, searching for burns, but did not find any. 

 

“I’ll take him from you,” offered d’Artagnan.

 

“No,” he replied gruffly. The last thing Porthos wanted to do was to surrender his hold on the medic. 

 

“You’re injured, Porthos,” murmured the Gascon. 

 

He knew that the boy was right, and reluctantly accepted his help. After a few moments, they were all positioned securely on the bed. Porthos wrapped Aramis in all the blankets d’Artagnan could find. The coldness of the marksman's skin was really disturbing. And the big man hated that his brother’s eyes remained closed. He really resembled a corpse.

 

“Mis!” he gasped.

 

The medic murmured softly, nuzzling against Porthos. This was a good sign.  A clingy Aramis was obviously a distressed Aramis, but also a very much alive Aramis.

 

D’Artagnan eyed Porthos worriedly. “He should eat something.”

“Any idea what can we give him?” The dark skinned musketeer knew that the best thing for Aramis would be a light broth, but this was obviously out of the question. Porthos could only guess why Aramis had an aversion to the liquid, but this was enough to make him furious every time he thought about it.

 

“I have an idea,” the Gascon said suddenly. “I’ve already checked the kitchen, and all the necessary ingredients are there. I should have no problem preparing it.” 

 

Porthos gave him a quizzical glance.

 

“It was impractical in Gascony to make a broth every time a child was ill. So my mother would make a light meal based on apples.”

 

“It may work. Fetch Deroux on your way to the kitchen.”

 

D’Artagnan nodded, and left.

 

Porthos shifted into a more comfortable position, only to realize that Athos was watching him. He met his gaze.

 

“Deroux had to drain his wound again,” the swordsman murmured.

 

“So I just slept through it?” a bitter Porthos asked, his voice furious. “I should have been at his side!”  What Athos said next froze him to his core.

 

“Aramis remained unconscious during the procedure.”

 

“But it obviously helped him,” Porthos murmured, glancing at the marksman’s face. He knew he should let his brother rest, but he could not resist the need to see if he was still responsive. He tugged on a lock of Aramis’ hair. The groan of protest was the sweetest sound he had heard in some time.

 

After a gentle knock on the door, Deroux came into the room.

 

Porthos wasted no time in lashing out at physician. “How dare you drug me?! I was asleep when my brothers needed me!” Although he was furious, he could tell from Athos’ expression that with Aramis in his arms, he was far less intimidating that he wanted to be.

 

“It was the best thing for you at the time, Monsieur.”

 

“No, it wasn’t! You have no idea how it felt for me to wake up and realize that I was asleep at a time when I was desperately needed!!!”

 

Aramis groaned in protest, and Porthos cursed himself. Obviously his brother was reacting to the fury in his loud voice.

 

“Sorry, Mis,” he whispered into his friend’s dark hair. 

 

“Monsieur, please tell me what happened,” murmured the doctor.

 

Porthos, still fuming, started to relate the story of what had happened. Although his tone was harsh, Deroux smiled in relief. Porthos looked at him in shock. Not even Aramis showed relief when the big man was so angry.

 

“I am very happy that Monsieur Aramis woke up. Did he drink the draught I had prepared?”

 

Porthos immediately felt a stab of guilt.  _ Nice care I gave him!  _

“No, only water.”

 

“In that case, I’ll prepare a new one, then check his wound. He also should eat something.”

 

“We’ll taken care of it,”  Porthos said quickly.

 

The dark skinned musketeer gently untangled himself from Aramis in order to give the physician access to his patient. The Spaniard protested incoherently, and tried to regain the warmth of Porthos’ arms. 

 

Deroux checked on the wound. 

 

“It’s a bit better. I will put a new poultice on it. It’s really astounding that he regained consciousness and was able to minister to Monsieur Athos….”

 

Porthos shrugged, but he heard Aramis whisper, “Thos needed me.”

 

As Deroux turned his attention to Athos, Porthos replied softly, “And I need you, Mis.”

  
  
  
  
  
  



	60. Chapter 60

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance's POV

Constance

 

The corridor was dark and cold, and her steps echoed off the bare walls. She missed the warmth of the room she had left, but she knew there was no place for her there.

 

_ There is no place for me in their hearts anymore. After all, I have killed one of them… I should have cleaned the wound more carefully. I should have checked on him more often.  _

 

She gave a muffled sob, and darted into an empty room to hide her despair. She did not deserve to be found and comforted.

 

She leaned against the wall, and slowly allowed her body to slide to the floor. Hugging her knees to her chest, she sat huddled in a corner. When she closed her eyes, all she saw was Aramis’ body, lying still and cold. She could almost hear Porthos’ sobs. She wanted to banish the images from her mind, but she knew it would not be possible. It was her punishment for murdering her friend-her brother. 

 

She bit down on her hand in order to stifle the sobs which wracked her body. She was not sure what she had said to d’Artagnan when she had left, but she desperately hoped that he would stay with his brothers instead of searching for her. 

 

But her hopes were dashed when she heard the door slowly opening, although she heard no familiar steps. She curled herself up further in the far corner. In the dark room, positioned between a bed and the wall, she would not be seen.

 

She heard a woman’s giggle. From her position, she could see nothing.

 

“Florentine…” a male voice said hoarsely. There was a note of desire in his tone. Then there was a muffled sound.

 

A kiss?

 

Constance was not sure, but she felt her cheeks redden. 

 

“Do you remember your instructions?”

 

“Yes, yes.”

 

Constance guessed that this Florentine was more focused on divesting the man of his clothes than recalling a past conversation. She heard the unmistakable sound of a weapon belt being thrown on the floor. How she loved that sound! It reminded her so much of d’Artagnan…

 

“I should put the powder in their food. Not the wine, because it’ll change the taste.”  The woman’s words froze her to the bone. 

 

“Good girl,” the man muttered, then groaned with pleasure.

 

Constance felt the heat on her face. She wanted nothing more than to flee the room, but she could not risk leaving Florentine free to put a poison or drug in their food. She was quite sure that the poison was targeted at the musketeers. The redhead bit her lip, trying to consider her options. The moans and sighs that floated from across the room did not help her concentration.

 

She knew that the pair would see her if she tried to leave--and they would probably kill her. She needed to wait for them to finish, then catch the woman. It would certainly be easier than attacking the man. And after all, Florentine, not the man, had the poison with her. Constance tried to think about something harmless that Florentine might have obtained, but nothing came to her mind.

 

So she waited, and tried not to listen to the sounds of their lovemaking. It was incredibly annoying that they were taking so long…

 

Finally, after muffled cries of satisfaction, they stilled. The man quickly dressed, murmured a goodbye, and left.

 

Florentine needed much more time with her corset. 

 

Constance slowly got up. Her legs were asleep after crouching so long in her hiding place, but somehow she managed to sneak up behind the woman. She was so quiet that Florentine was not aware of her presence until the moment that she felt a cold blade on her throat. Constance’s other hand shot to cover the woman’s mouth. She did not need any noise, and was not ready to kill Florentine if she disobeyed. 

 

“You will remain silent, and will come with me to speak to the Captain. Do I make myself clear?” Constance’s voice was low, and full of fury.

 

The woman nodded frantically in response. 

 

“Good.” Constance adjusted her grip, and she steered her prisoner towards the door. Florentine was shaking. They entered the corridor, and Constance headed towards the room that was being used as the Captain’s office. 

 

Suddenly there, were steps approaching them.

 

“If you want to live, don’t do anything stupid,” murmured the redhead, shifting her hold nervously. 

 

A man was walking in their direction. Constance was relieved when she recognized him. 

 

“Etienne!”

 

“Can I help you?” he asked, surveying the redhead's companion with curiosity.

 

“Yes! Where can I find the Captain? This one probably has poison with her, and was prepared to use it against us.”  Constance felt a pang at her words. 

 

_ There is no “us” anymore. Still… Etienne doesn't seem to know that Aramis’ condition is my fault. _

 

“Good work catching her!” exclaimed Etienne.

 

She looked at him in shock, but said nothing. 

 

When they entered the Captain’s office, he raised an eyebrow at them quizzically.

 

“This woman was to going to poison some of the food,” said Constance, her anger evident in her voice. 

 

“It’s a lie!! All I did was meet my lover!” cried out Florentine.

 

“Hold her!” Constance ordered Etienne. He obeyed. The redhead started to search Florentine’s dress, and quickly found a vial with green liquid.

 

“What is this?” Treville asked, his eyes narrowing.

 

“Medicine--for my sick child!”

 

“Prove it. Take a sip!” the Captain ordered.

 

Florentine eyes widened in horror.

 

“Yes, go ahead! After all, if it really is medicine, I will owe you an apology,” Constance added maliciously.

 

“Nnnooo!”

 

“Etienne, make her drink it!” Treville ordered.

 

The woman tried to free herself from Etienne’s hold. She managed to wriggle one hand free. Constance seized it immediately and bent back the wrist, just the way Porthos had taught her. The amount of force she exerted caused instant pain. She was accustomed to having to use all her strength when training with the big man.

 

Florentine howled in pain. For a moment, Constance felt guilty, but then she thought about Athos’ torment when he had been poisoned, and her fingers instinctively tightened their grip.

 

“It’s poison!!” the prisoner cried out.

 

“Who was the target?”, Treville asked.

 

“You and your men!” Florentine spat at him through tears of pain. 

 

Constance was trembling with rage. “Who is your lover?!”

 

“None of your business!”

 

“He wanted to you to poison people I care for, so IT IS my business!” Constance increased the pressure. Florentine fell to her knees in an attempt to lessen the tension that was being exerted on her wrist.

 

“Never!” she vowed. Constance saw fire, not fear, in the woman’s eyes. She was obviously determined to protect her lover at all costs.

 

“So, are you prepared to hang for him?” Treville inquired.

 

The woman gasped.

 

Constance took a better look at Florentine, and guessed that she was likely part of the kitchen staff. The woman was probably a few years younger than herself, and wore a plain dress made of rough wool. She had long brown hair and deep green eyes. Given a chance to pay attention to her looks, she might actually be pretty.

 

The woman remained silent for a moment, then nodded.

 

_ Will she talk, or will I end up breaking her wrist? Am I ready to break her hand? _

 

Constance’s fingers adjusted once more, and the woman screamed in pain.

 

“Enough!” the Captain barked.

 

The readhead hesitated, unsure if she was relieved or angry. She let go of Florentine.

 

“Etienne, secure the prisoner. Constance, come with me!” the Captain ordered.

 

“Yes, sir,” they answered simultaneously.

 

Constance followed him without a word, and soon realized where he was taking her. Her heart constricted painfully in her chest. She had deserted them. She had intended to leave for just a short time, just long enough to regain her composure--to better hide her fear and guilt. However, she had been gone for quite some time now. 

 

Treville knocked, and someone called for him to come in. He opened the door to find Porthos aiming his pistol at them. The big man looked very awkward, as he was curled around Aramis. The medic, lying nestled in his arms, appeared to be asleep rather than unconscious. His face was hidden, the bandage accusingly white in his mop of dark hair. 

 

“Captain. Constance.” Porthos smiled. “D’Artagnan was worried about you.”

 

_ I do not deserve his smile. I do not deserve to have him worry about me... _

 

“I’m sorry…” she mumbled guiltily.

 

“Don’t be,” murmured the musketeer. 

 

He definitely appeared to be better. A period of rest in more comfortable surroundings had done wonders for him.

 

_ As has Aramis’ care… _

 

“Honestly, how do you feel, Porthos?” the Captain asked.

 

“Much better. And hungry. Could you please, Captain, put the tray somewhere over here? I cannot quite reach it now.” He looked at Aramis with a fond smile. 

 

“How is he?” Treville had asked the question to which Constance was afraid to hear the answer.

 

“He was conscious awhile ago. Deroux checked on his wound, then rewrapped it with a new poultice. He said it looked better.” Porthos’ voice sounded small. He still feared for his brother.

 

“Did he eat anything?”

 

“No. D’Artagnan had an idea of something light that we could give him, so he went to the kitchen to prepare it.”

 

Porthos stroked Aramis’ hair. Constance held her breath, hoping for a reaction. But none came. She saw that the big man was also disappointed.

 

“Athos did not tolerate his first meal very well.” The dark skinned musketeer cast a sad glance at his sleeping companion, “Deroux gave him some tea, and said that Athos should try to eat later, when he woke up. I suspect that our friend may no longer be asleep, but prefers to keep that fact to himself.”

 

“You can hardly blame him,” Treville murmured compassionately. He sat on the bed, and put his hand on Athos’ forehead.

 

“He’s still feverish,” he observed.

 

“Deroux did not seem too concerned,” Porthos replied.

 

“Constance captured one of the cooks,” said Treville. “The woman had been ordered to poison us. I plan to investigate this further, but I am not sure if it is a good idea for you to stay here longer. I don’t think you are well enough to take advantage of the queen’s generous offer. But it is only a day’s ride to the garrison. We can use a few comfortable coaches.”

 

“I am all for it,” murmured Athos. He did not even bother to open his eyes.

 

“So you aren't asleep after all,” Treville observed.

 

“I was. You woke me up,” grumbled the swordsman. 

 

“We can only leave if it will not put Aramis in any further danger,” Porthos said gruffly.

“I’ll talk with the doctor.”

 

“Captain, perhaps you should just dismiss the kitchen staff. I can cook for your men. Wouldn’t that be much safer?” Constance asked. Maybe there was a way that she could still help them…protect them. 

 

Porthos grinned. “I think that’s an excellent idea. I love your cooking!”

 

Treville sighed. “I’ll discuss this with Deroux, but it seems like the best idea for now.”

 

“Aramis… come on, wake up!”  whispered Porthos. His voice was so pleading. Constance’s heart broke. She watched as the big man gently tried to disentangle himself from his brother. His dark eyes searched the Spaniard’s face, hoping to see some kind of a response. 

 

After he withdrew a bit, he finally received one. Aramis’ hand blindly shot up and caught hold of the big man’s shirt. In an instant, the medic had pulled himself back to his former resting place - nestled in Porthos’ arms.

 

_ That’s better. He is responsive. And he knows what he wants.  _

_ God, save him, please... _

  
  
  
  
  
  



	61. Chapter 61

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

Aramis

 

He was freezing. His body felt as if it were made of ice...or as if he had been buried in the frozen ground. No… it was as if he had been immersed in frigid water. The coldness of the liquid filled his entire body.

 

_ So why am I still breathing? Am I underwater? _

 

_ “It’s only an illusion...the illusion of life”. _

 

Was this his own thought? Or was it someone else’s voice? He was not sure. All he knew was that he was cold. He missed the sun. He missed its warmth so desperately that his whole frozen, dead heart was aching. His soul seemed as fragile as frozen flowers...as if one touch would be enough to shatter it. And it had been touched. It was tainted. 

 

The ice was dark. 

 

_ Why? _

 

Memories rushed into his mind. 

He remembered the women who had died because of him. 

He remembered his tortured brothers.

Their blood was on his hands.

 

He remembered how he had been nothing but a toy for his captors to play with...and then to discard.  He had been unable to spare his brothers the torment of seeing him.

 

_ Porthos pulling out a knife from his wound in order to attack his opponent. _

_ Porthos falling on his knees.  _

_ And then falling further… over the edge of the precipice….the edge of the abyss. _

 

He screamed. 

 

He wanted to follow his brother, but suddenly, a pair of hands caught hold of him. He wanted to fight against them, but the palm on his cheek was warm. So blissfully warm.

 

_ Well, I am a whore after all. I’ll do anything to feel the warmth of another body… So please… stay with me… _

 

He leaned into the warmth. He let his hand follow the palm touching his face in order to find the rest of the arm. He wanted to seize the shirt on that arm and pull the body closer. At least, that was his plan...but it failed, as the warmth grasped him instead, and pulled him into an embrace. 

 

There was a voice murmuring words into his ear. There were hot hands on his back, and then on his arms. He hid his face in someone’s chest. He knew he would pay for it. But for the moment, all that counted was the warmth.  It could not banish the cold inside him, but it could at least give him some relief.

 

“I think he’s caught up in a nightmare. Christ, he is so cold! This cannot be good!”  The voice that was speaking broke.

 

“I told you not to move!” Another voice, very hoarse and weak, spoke up. “But apparently you felt you needed to help me.” There was no accusation in the tone--only sadness and exasperation.

 

_ Athos and Porthos.  _ Aramis did not feel quite ready to join them. He relaxed against Porthos’ chest. 

 

“Mis? I know you’re awake.”  Worry and relief mingled in Porthos’ voice.

 

He hummed. There was no reason to fake unconsciousness anymore.

 

“How do you feel?”

 

“Fine,” the medic lied. He could feel the infection still ravaging his body. Unfortunately he was too familiar with this feeling to mistake it for weakness.

 

“Try again!” Porthos growled.

 

“Cold.”

 

“Constance, could you bring him some tea?” Porthos asked. “I hope d’Artagnan will be here soon with his Gascon dish.”

 

“Mis? I need you to drink your tea. I have to change your position a bit.”

 

Aramis reluctantly withdrew a bit from his brother’s arms. As he was conscious, he really did not need to be manhandled like a puppet.

 

Porthos must have guessed what he intended to do. He helped the Spaniard sit up, then allowed him to lean back against his body.

 

Aramis hoped that the his dizzy spell would not last long. He sat still, with his eyes tightly shut.

 

“Mis?” Porthos gently stroked his face.

 

He did not answer, focusing on fighting against the nausea, which seemed to build as the world swirled around him.  

 

“Mis? What’s wrong?” Porthos asked anxiously

.

“He’s paler than he was,” Constance said in alarm.

 

“Don’t feel good,” the marksman mumbled. He regretted it immediately when he felt Porthos stiffen.

 

“Are you going to be sick?” his brother asked, his voice quivering.

 

Constance positioned something on his lap.  _ Probably a bucket. _

 

Aramis concentrated on breathing, and the dizziness and nausea slowly passed. His face was bathed in cold sweat. He shivered as a new wave of bitter cold penetrated his body.

 

The medic knew that the dizziness and nausea were probably due to both the change in position and his generally serious condition. 

 

He could feel the tension in Porthos’ body. The big man was clearly terrified. He hand stilled on the marksman’s hair.

 

_ He is probably afraid of worsening my condition.  _

 

Aramis felt a warm cloth wipe the sweat from his face. 

 

“Thanks…” he murmured. The bout of weakness seemed to pass. 

 

The marksman inhaled as deeply as his bruised ribs allowed, and slowly opened his eyes.

 

Constance was watching him with a worried expression. He gave her a weary smile, then let his eyes wander around the room for the first time.

 

It was a large place, with a big window that was now covered by heavy dark blue curtains. The white walls were decorated with some floral motifs.

 

His eyes were caught by the warm golden glow of the fireplace. He stared at the blue and white tiles on the chimney, which depicted hunting scenes.

 

His eyes wandered to the ceiling, which had been painted with scenes from mythology. One depicted some nymphs fleeing from satyrs. The meticulously crafted crystal chandelier was not brightened by candles. The only light in the room came from candles which flickered in modest silver candelabras that had been set on the nightstands. The marksman was more than sure that he had never been in that room.

 

“Where are we?” he finally asked.

 

“Fontainebleau. The second floor, in the south wing,” replied Constance. 

 

“Athos?” he asked, glancing at his brother, who appeared to be sleeping.

 

_ Or pretending to sleep.  _

 

“He is resting. We have not attempted to feed him since the last time we tried. Do you think you can keep down some herbal tea?” Constance asked.

 

He thought for a moment. The nausea had abated, and he knew that he needed to do everything possible to fight the infection. He could not let it beat him. 

 

He glanced at the copper bowl that Constance had positioned on his lap. 

 

“I don’t think I’ll be needing that,” he murmured, giving her an embarrassed smile. 

 

She nodded, and took it away. 

 

“Porthos?” he asked softly. It was then that he realized that his hand still was gripping his brother’s leg. He slowly relaxed his fingers.

 

“I am sorry I hurt you,” he whispered.

 

“Don’t worry, Mis. I’m fine. How do you feel now?”

 

“Better… but you… I know I hurt you.”

 

“You scared me, Mis. In my nightmares… you used to die right after you said such things to me. I hate it. I hate when you do that to me!” Porthos’ whispered words were full of pain. He tightened his hold on the marksman.

 

“I’m here…” Aramis murmured. 

 

“And I am so glad!” Porthos replied fervently.

 

_ I am here, brother. And I’ll do my best not worry you any further.  _

 

The door slowly opened. Aramis wanted to reach for his weapon, but he was completely tangled up in the blankets. Constance gave him a brief smile, then aimed her weapon at the door….only to see d’Artagnan. She quickly lowered her pistol.

 

The Gascon smiled.

 

“Your breakfast… dinner… whatever you want to call it...is ready!” he announced. 

 

“First, you need some tea,” Constance declared. She passed a cup to Porthos’ extended hand.

 

“I can hold it myself!” Aramis protested. 

 

“Yes, you can,” Porthos agreed calmly. “But you’re not going to.  After all, I’m sure you would rather stay warm. So keep your hands under the blankets.”

 

Aramis closed his eyes, relaxing while he listened to the soft rumble in Porthos’ chest as his brother spoke. He understood the unspoken plea in the other man’s words _ -allow me to care for you now that you are conscious and coherent. _

 

The cup touched his lips, and he drank the sweet liquid. The bitterness of the herbs was masked by the honey. The warmth slowly radiated through his body.

 

“Good!” Porthos seemed pleased with him. “Now you’ll eat this special dish of Gascony, which has been prepared for you by our very own Gascon!”

 

“As a punishment?” Aramis murmured.

 

Porthos chuckled. “We will find out shortly.” D’Artangnan handed him a small bowl. The dark skinned musketeer sniffed it cautiously.

 

“I must test it,” he explained, then carefully took a spoonful of the mousse. He sniffed once more with suspicion, then took a small taste. A second later, he swallowed the rest with relish.

 

“Why have you hidden this talent from us, d’Artagnan?!” he exclaimed. “It’s delicious, Mis!”

 

Aramis ducked his head, watching his friend closely in an attempt to determine if the thing he was about to eat was truly delicious--or awful.

 

Porthos took another spoonful, clearly intending to feed him. Aramus copied his brother’s actions, and sniffed the yellowish pulp on the spoon. It smelled sweet, like a mixture of honey and apple. He tasted it, and and was surprised to find that it was quite good! He ate the next few spoons eagerly, but then suddenly felt full.

 

“That’s enough. Thank you,” he murmured, then suggested, “We can try to feed Athos the rest.”

 

“Can he keep it down?” Porthos seemed skeptical. 

 

“He cannot afford to go without food much longer. We’ll lose him if this keeps up.” Aramis finally had to share his greatest fear.

 

“Not so loud! He may be able to hear us!” d’Artagnan exclaimed.

 

“He can,” replied a hoarse voice. “And he already knows that he is close to death.”

 

“Athos?” Athos smiled as he watched his brother slowly open his eyes. 

 

The man glared at him in reply.

 

D’Artagnan took the bowl from Porthos, and sat near Athos. He helped him to settle him back on the pillows, then started to coax Athos to eat. The lieutenant complied. 

 

Aramis observed them for a while. D’Artagnan gave a little food to Athos, then placed the bowl near the fireplace. He cast a worried glance at Athos. The swordsman sat with his eyes closed, his face pale.

 

“Do you want to lie down?” asked d’Artagnan.

 

“No.” Athos’ reply was almost inaudible.

 

D’Artagnan searched Aramis’ eyes, as if desperately seeking advice. 

 

“Leave him be. And calm down! No one likes being watched like everyone expects him to turn into a dragon at any moment.” Aramis tried to lighten the mood. 

 

“I thought you liked to be admired,” Porthos added.

 

“Admired - yes. But do you see any admiration in our little brother’s stare?”

 

“No. But he is watching the wrong person, isn’t he?” Porthos chuckled slightly. 

 

“But no one can compete with you as far as being my pillow!” Aramis murmured. 

 

He tried to sound optimistic. But he did not truly feel positive. He knew that Athos was struggling with nausea, and he prayed that his friend would prevail. Another round of heaving would further weaken him, and would cause him to be more reluctant to try to eat again.

 

Aramis wanted so much to comfort his brother, but he knew that there was nothing he could do. 

 

“He’ll be fine. He’s our lieutenant.” Porthos said, mustering all the confidence that he could. It was far less than what he usually felt.

 

“Porthos, how do you feel?” the medic asked nervously.

 

“Much better. I made sure to take advantage of all the benefits of our surroundings. I have to say that good food and a warm bed are much preferable to starving while lying on a cold, hard floor.” 

 

“At least one of us can enjoy it,” Aramis murmured. He changed his position in order to nestle closer to his brother. 

 

They sat in silence. 

 

Aramis allowed his eyes to close. The fire was crackling. Its warmth seemed so distant- so unreachable. He shivered. The inner cold seemed to take hold of him once again.

 

“Mis? What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Don’t lie to me!”

 

“I’m just tired…”

 

Porthos shook his head, and muttered, “No. It’s more than that.”

 

Aramis sighed. He did not want to have this conversation now. He did not want to be a bigger burden than he already was. 

 

“Brother, I can practically hear you thinking. Be honest with me, please.”

 

_ What can I say? Do you want me to tell you that the infection still can kill me? Or that I am still haunted by memories? _

 

_ Perhaps I should tell you that I know that I do not deserve your kindness… _

 

“Mis, dammit! Talk to me!”

 

Porthos shifted the marksman so that he could make eye contact with him. He cupped his chin when the medic tried to escape his gaze. 

 

The Spaniard tried to gather his thoughts into a sentence. 

 

_ How can I explain to you what is wrong without giving fuel to your nightmares? _

 

“Hold me, please,” he whispered. 

 

He saw panic in his brother’s face, and hated himself for being the cause of that pain. 

 

“Mis…” Porthos’ voice broke, but he did as his brother asked. Aramis hid his face in the big man’s chest. 

 

“I am so cold…” he whispered. He knew that Porthos remembered the time after Savoy. At that time, those words had been the only reply he had been able to give to any question that was asked of him. What he meant was that he was emotionally and physically cold. It meant also that the coldness of blood loss or fever was lingering in his body. It meant that he could feel the chilled breath of Death on his skin. 

 

“You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.”

 

Aramis slowly lifted his head in order to look into his brother’s eyes. They were full of unshed tears. Porthos somehow managed to smile when their eyes met.

 

“You’ll be fine… there is no other option,” he said, giving his brother a cocky grin.

 

And Aramis tried to believe him. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	62. Chapter 62

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos' POV

Athos

 

_ “Sign the confession, or he dies.’ _

 

_ Aramis locked eyes with Athos, as if he was searching for advice. But there was nothing Athos could offer other than a direct order. And he knew, deep in his heart, that Aramis would never obey him. The marksman bowed his head in defeat. _

 

_ “Think about the Queen, about the Dauphin! Do you want to condemn an innocent woman and an innocent child--just as I did--in order to save a life that is not worth saving?! Aramis, you vowed to protect them!” _

 

_ “There is only one way, Athos. Tell Porthos… he is… was... my dearest friend.” _

 

_ And it was only then that Athos realized that he was the one who was holding the pen. _

_ “I Athos, Olivier de la Fere, offer this confession. I am guilty of adultery with Queen Anne,  committed in a convent…” _

 

_ “Sign it.” _

_ There was only one answer he could give. _

_ “Never.” _

 

_ He was forced to watch as they whipped Aramis. The metal balls on the whip tore into the marksman’s flesh, and the air was thick with the smell of blood. Small drops of blood were splattered onto his face. He could feel the taste of his brother’s blood on his lips.  _

 

_ The marksman did his best to remain silent, but towards the end, a low howling moan came from his throat.  _

 

_ “You can save him. Just give us your signature, and he will live.” _

 

_ Athos showed no reaction. He did not react when Aramis’ body finally went limp, and no amount of water could revive him. He did not react as his brother’s life blood trickled from his body… or while he desperately gasped for air...or when his soul finally left his tormented body. _

 

_ He did not react when the bandits dragged in Constance. _

_ He did not react when they demanded his signature once again. _

_ He did not react when they raped her, and cut her body. _

_ He did not react… _

 

_ And then… _

_ The bandits were dead.  Porthos was mourning his beloved brother, while d’Artagnan was begging Constance not to die. _

 

_ “Lieutenant Athos of the King’s Musketeers, you performed your duty with outstanding diligence…We are so proud of you…” The KIng’s words sounded empty to his ears...as empty as Aramis’ place by the lieutenant’s side was. _

 

He woke up abruptly. The room was almost completely dark. The only light in the room came from a guttering candle. In its flickering light, Athos could see d’Artagnan’s pale face. 

 

_ His dream...Was a nightmare? Or a memory? _

 

Athos was not sure. 

Then the candle went out.

  
  


Athos sat up, supported by the pillows. He tried to move towards the edge of the bed. His body felt incredibly weak, and was slow to react to his commands. He recalled vaguely that he had been poisoned. He finally reached the edge of the bed, and swung his feet on to the cold floor. In the darkness, he could not tell if there was anything he could use to help him stand up. He took a deep breath and…

 

The door opened, but the light was so dim that he could not identify the person who slipped inside the room. Athos’ hand reached for his dagger. He did not trust his body enough to attempt to stand up and attack. 

 

“Who is it?” he whispered into the darkness.

 

“Athos, you’re awake!” Constance’s voice was soft. She appeared to be doing something. From the noises she made, he guessed that she was striking a spark. A candle was finally lit. 

 

“Do you need something?” she asked.

 

“No,” he replied, unable to take his eyes from her.

.

She was pale, and bruises were still visible on her face.

 

“How do you feel?” he asked.

 

She mumbled, “I’m fine,” then turned her back, busying herself with the fireplace.

 

“I’m sorry…” he said. 

 

She turned to him briskly.  “What for?”

 

He hesitated, once more unsure how to distinguish between reality and his dream.

 

“I was unable to protect you.”

 

She gave a bitter laugh.

 

“When I offer to care for a wounded person, I don’t expect to be defended. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine, Athos. I did not keep us safe...and for that, I cannot forgive myself  I am sorry that you have been poisoned. I..”  Her voice broke, and she stopped. She lowered her head, and he was certain she was crying.

 

“Constance… I… wasn’t able to save you. I… couldn’t. I COULDN’T. I had to do my duty…”

 

“Athos! What are you talking about? Calm down.”  She gently cupped his face. 

 

Now he remembered. She had offered herself to their captors in order to spare him torment.

 

“Constance, never try to defend me! Have I made myself clear?!”

 

She wanted to ask him why. Her questioning eyes were full of tears. But she did not say a word, merely bowing her head in acceptance. It surprised him.

 

“You should go back to your husband. Leave us!”

 

She shook his head desperately, then clapped her hand over her mouth and fled from the room. The door slammed shut behind her, and d’Artagnan jumped to his feet, his pistol in his hand.

 

“What’s going on?” he asked nervously. 

 

_ She will be safer without us. It’s much better this way. _

 

“Everything is fine,” murmured Athos.

 

There was a commotion behind him. 

 

“Aramis? What’s wrong?” D’Artagnan put away his gun.

 

“Need to go out!” The marksman disentangled from Porthos, who mumbled something incoherently.

 

“Aramis… what do you need?”

 

“I need to talk to Constance.”

 

“Aramis, leave it,” muttered Athos. “It is better for her to leave. For her own safety, she needs to resume the quiet life she had before she met us.” 

 

D’Artagnan gasped.

 

“It’s the middle of the night,” Porthos grumbled. “Have you considered sleeping? LIke normal people do?!”

 

Aramis glared at the lieutenant. “I refuse to sleep when Athos has caused a lady to flee the room in tears.”

 

_ This is your chance to make them hate you. You know what to say. Just hurt them enough to save them. Aramis does it every time he digs out a bullet embedded in flesh. _

 

“Constance cannot risk her life for us. Because of us, she barely avoided a fate worse than death. Do you really want her to be humiliated? If so - go, comfort her. Tell her all the platitudes you know about how you’ll keep her safe. Tell her all those lies!”

 

“Athos, what is wrong with you?” Aramis asked, his voice full of concern.

 

_ Concern. Worry.  _

_ You should forget about me.  _

 

Athos knew exactly what he should say. But it was so difficult to hurt his brother on purpose.

 

_ Better to hurt him in a controlled way than to cause him to be killed by my presence. _

 

Aramis’ hand touched his forehead, and the swordsman recoiled violently.

 

“Don’t touch me!” he hissed.

 

He averted his gaze when he saw the pain in his brother’s eyes. 

 

“Your fever is worse,” the medic said, his voice gentle.

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

“You’re acting really strange. You know our little brother loves Constance--and it is not your place to tell him whether a woman is right for him or not.”

 

_ He is a whore. Tell him!! Tell him, and he’ll soon forget about all the concern and brotherhood he feels for you. Or instead, tell d’Artagnan that Constance is a whore… or better yet, that he had made her into a whore. _

 

_ D’Artagnan? _ He looked around, _ Dammit, the boy went after her.  _

 

Athos turned on the Spaniard, his voice full of venom. “So you think you are the expert? You think you know everything about extramarital affairs, and how safe they are for women? What a joke! You have put all of us at risk due to your lack of self-control!”

 

Aramis blanched. 

“You were tortured because of my relationship with…” the medic could not finish, and his eyes widened. “And d’Artagnan… because of Christine… Christine died…” 

 

Athos wanted so badly to comfort him. But he could not. He had to save them. And the only way to do that was to distance himself from them.

 

“Aramis, Constance offered herself to our captors, just as you did. Why? Because she wanted to save my life. Do you understand how that makes me feel?! Do you?!”

 

“But nothing happened to her! I can see how her readiness to sacrifice herself would distress you, but we should respect her for her courage, not look down on her.”

 

Athos felt as if he was losing this fight. His energy was waning. But he could also see that Aramis was fighting to maintain his composure. The medic was shaking badly, but the swordsman was aware that his own body was trembling.

 

After a few moments, the medic said quietly, “You should drink the draught. It will help you.” 

 

Porthos passed him the cup. 

“And you should shut up, okay?” There was worry in his voice, but there was also anger.

 

_ I just want you to be safe. _

 

“You know, we’re not going to abandon you,” muttered Porthos. “Even if you do your best to try to hurt us.”

 

“What if I want you to abandon me?” the swordsman asked.

 

“Stop punishing yourself!” Aramis growled.

 

“And watch your mouth,” added Porthos.  “Because you’ll end up with a broken nose if this keeps up.”

 

Athos knew just what to say in order to make Porthos angry. But he also knew that his words would pierce Aramis’ soul. 

 

“I don’t…” He started to speak, but his voice trailed off when he saw Aramis turn pale, then pitch forward towards the bed. Fortunately, Porthos caught him before he reached it.


	63. Chapter 63

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' POV

Porthos

 

“Aramis?!!”  He gently lowered his unconscious brother onto the bed. He tried to ignore how badly his hands were shaking.  Recently, each time the medic had lost consciousness, Porthos had been close to panic. 

 

“Mis?! Please open your eyes!”  Porthos patted his cheek softly. The marksman did not respond.  The big man cursed under his breath, quickly considering his options. He could go for help. At this point, he was fairly sure he was strong enough, as he had already succeeded in getting to his feet. However, he was afraid to leave Aramis alone with Athos. The lieutenant was obviously mentally unstable at present, and Porthos did not want to risk him hurting his beloved friend any further. Still, this same beloved friend needed a physician, as he appeared to be refusing to regain consciousness. Porthos suspected that this was not a good sign.

 

The dark skinned musketeer picked up his pistol. He glanced up at the smiling satyr on the ceiling. All of a sudden, he found it incredibly annoying. Raising his weapon, he fired a shot at it. The noise made Aramis flinch. The medic blinked, his eyes sluggish. 

 

“What happened?” he mumbled, struggling against the weakness that threatened to overwhelm him.

 

“You fainted.”

 

Aramis did not contradict him, which only made Porthos more concerned. The medic had always maintained that only damsels fainted.  Men did not.

 

“How do you feel?” The words were barely out of his mouth before the door flew open. D’Artagnan rushed inside, weapon in hand, his eyes wildly searching for the threat. Constance was only a few steps behind him.

 

“Calm down, d’Artagnan! I fired off a shot in order to get your attention.  I need you to fetch Deroux…”

 

“No!”  Aramis protested vehemently. “Let them stay. We need to clear the air without any outsiders in the room.” 

 

The words were said in a low voice, but Porthos sensed the fire underlying them. He felt a sense of relief.  He hated it when Aramis was despondent and passive. However, there was no denying that the marksman was quite easy to deal with when he was in that state.

 

Porthos eyed Aramis with concern, then growled, “Fine. We’ll talk.” The medic smiled in gratitude.

 

“Can you help me sit up?” the marksman asked sheepishly.

 

“Why did you fire your pistol?” D’Artagnan approached the bed, while Constance closed the door. She appeared hesitant, and Porthos sensed that she was ready to flee. 

 

“Constance, could you light a few more candles, please?”  She nodded, and went to work.

 

“Aramis fainted,” the big man explained. “I wanted the doctor to see to him, but I didn’t want to leave him with our somewhat irrational brother.”

 

“Well, I don’t think anyone outside the immediate area heard the gunshot,” d’Artagnan murmured.

 

Porthos sighed in relief. “Good.”

 

“Look, I’ll fetch the doctor while you talk,” said Constance, her eyes bright with tears. “My presence here is unnecessary.”  She stood in the warm light of the candles, her red hair glowing. 

 

Porthos gave her a quizzical glance. She swallowed, and continued, “Athos is right.   I… I should leave you. I am not good enough to remain by your side. I… I’m so sorry… It’s my fault… that you’re so ill, Aramis.” Her eyes were downcast, and a shiver passed through her body.

 

Aramis started to lift himself up. Porthos’ eyes had been riveted on Constance, and he realized with shame that he had forgotten about the marksman’s request. He helped his brother into an upright position, leaning him back against his chest. Aramis stiffened, and Porthos guessed that a dizzy spell had hit him. So he stilled, and waited as Aramis took some rapid, shallow breaths. He hated watching his brother suffer.

 

Once he seemed to stabilize, the medic reached for Constance. She immediately took his hand in hers.

 

“You did everything you could,” the Spaniard whispered. “I don’t blame you…”

 

Porthos’ heart clenched painfully. To his ears, Aramis’ words sounded like a farewell. 

 

“But you had stronger herbs…”

 

“And I had no intention of wasting them on myself while others were in need. That was my choice, Constance.  I knew that the wound had started to fester. I didn’t think it would get as bad as it did… but… you did everything you could. So please don’t blame yourself.”

 

Porthos exhaled loudly. He had managed to remain silent during Aramis’ speech, but now fury was surging through his heart.

 

“Have you gone completely insane, Aramis?! How can you possibly think that treating yourself is a waste of resources?” 

 

The medic gave him a weak grin. “I’d be careful if I were you. It seems as if you are surrounded by insane men.”

 

“Well, he is.” Athos spoke up, his voice hoarse. “Aramis, can’t you see that you’re putting Constance at risk?  If she truly wants to be with d’Artagnan, fine. That’s their affair. But there is no reason for her to fight by our side.”

 

“So, the mighty musketeers do not accept my companionship?” Constance snapped. “Shall I turn to the Red Guard now?” Her hand still gripped Aramis’ tightly.

 

“Why do you want Constance to leave?” Aramis asked, his voice soft and sad.

Porthos changed his position a bit, ducking his head in order to catch a glimpse of his brother’s face. He ignored the painful pulling of his wound. It was far more important for him to observe both his brothers at that moment.

 

“She offered her body to them! She…” Athos seemed to be replaying the scene over and over in his mind. 

 

“At that terrible moment, I did what I thought was best.” Constance’s voice trembled with fury. “Call me selfish, but I could not just stand there and watch them murder you! I had to do whatever it took to stop them. Is that really so difficult to understand?!” 

 

Athos locked eyes with her. “And what would you have done if they had taken you up on your offer?”

 

Her face went completely white, the dark bruises clearly visible. 

 

“It may happen again, so you’d better be clear about how you would live as a tainted, damaged woman.” Athos’ voice was low and cold. “Would you still be able to find joy in the arms of your lover?” 

 

Porthos could feel the tension in Aramis’ body increasing with each word. The marksman’s face became paler than he thought possible. Constance seemed lost, overwhelmed by the dueling emotions of fury and shock.  D’Artagnan stared at Athos, completely confused.

 

“SHUT UP!” growled Porthos, his eyes glittering with anger. “If you don’t, I swear I’ll hit you!” He realized it would not be so easy to carry out his threat, as he was still holding Aramis. He could feel small tremors running through his brother.

 

_ It’s too late now to knock him out. The disaster I feared has already happened.  _

 

“Damaged and tainted?!” echoed Aramis. His voice was full of venom and hurt. “So you just want to be rid of me and d’Artagnan? You think we are now unworthy of your friendship? Well, you’ll be pleased to know that there’s still a good chance that I will succumb to infection.”

 

_ No… please… tell me you’re just trying to make Athos rethink his words… please… _

 

But Porthos knew that Aramis believed what he had said. He could sense the truth in his brother’s words. He reached out to grip Aramis’ arm, but suddenly recalled the bruises that covered the marksman’s body. Instead, he placed his warm palm on the base of his friend’s neck...on his skin that was still too cold.

 

Silence reigned in the room. With this conversation, they had ventured onto thin ice. Or perhaps they were drowning, but had not yet realized it. 

 

Athos’ face was grey. His pupils dilated as he probably struggled to understand the hurt that his words had caused. Porthos felt as if their world had shattered around them. The brotherhood they had built in order to give each other shelter and comfort was no more.

 

When they first met, they had all been fugitives from their pasts, even if they hadn’t been aware of it at the time. Then they had found each other, and had started to build something from the ashes. Their friendship. Their brotherhood. For Porthos, there was nothing more precious.He felt hatred slowly filling his heart. Athos had inflicted so much pain on him...on all of them. But he could not force himself to act on his emotions, as he was terrified that he would damage their bond further...perhaps beyond repair.  _ There was still a bond, wasn’t there?!  _

 

_ Say something! Save the day! Save us! Athos!! Please, I beg you! _

 

The lieutenant was visibly struggling with his emotions, and Porthos could no longer remain silent.

 

“Are you trying to convince yourself that you succeeded in what you set out to do, now that you are so close to having all of us hate you?!” His voice shook with rage as he continued. “If that’s what you really want, just say it!  Finish Aramis off instead of hovering over his wounded body!” 

 

Athos swallowed. He seemed to be on the verge of speaking, but remained silent. 

 

A broken whisper came from Aramis. “It’s fine, Porthos…I understand… I won’t force my presence on Athos any longer.”  

 

Those words were enough to stir Porthos to action. He started to push the medic aside in order to launch himself at Athos, but Aramis caught his hand and squeezed it pleadingly. 

 

“I think we should find another room. D’Artagnan, can you help me up?” The marksman’s voice was so fragile...so frightened. The Gascon, still in shock at what he had witnessed, nodded, and came over to help.

 

The marksman’s skin was so pale that it was almost transparent. He looked like a ghost, not a human being.

 

“Aramis…” Athos finally gasped, “I… I beg your forgiveness!” He lowered his eyes.

 

“You merely said that I’m tainted and damaged, and you’re absolutely right...so there is nothing to forgive. As for the part that where you implied that you don’t want to have anything to do with me, I…” Aramis voice broke. “I understand …”   He bit his lip hard, fighting the tears glistening in his eyes. He was barely breathing as he llicked a drop of blood that had welled up on his lip. 

 

Athos was devastated.  “Aramis… I… I… don’t want to get rid of you! I just think you’ll be safer away from me!”

 

_ Safety?! This is the reason he has inflicted so much pain on Aramis? In the name of safety?! This is Aramis, you fool! _

 

Aramis interrupted Athos. “I’m the one who put us all in danger by my choice of lovers.” 

 

“True, but Allancourt sought revenge because of my actions.”

 

“So, the leader of “True Musketeers” is your son?” the Spaniard asked. Although only pain was visible in his eyes, his voice was heavy with sarcasm.

 

Athos stared at him with shock.  “Aramis, what are you talking about?! I can’t have an adult son. It’s impossible!” 

 

“Allancourt’s sister was convicted for conspiring against the Crown. As far as I recall, she pleaded guilty, so Athos, please… her death was not your fault. Allancourt's thirst for revenge is not your fault. The intense hatred that the “True Musketeers” leader seems to have for us… is probably well deserved.” Aramis’ voice was barely audible now. He gently freed his hand from Constance’s grasp, and extended it to Athos. His brother’s eyes widened, and he seized it as if it were a lifeline. 

 

The marksman adjusted his grip, and looked expectantly at the others. Porthos knew what he should do. But he still felt anger flowing through his veins. Aramis lowered his head.

 

“Please,” he whispered.

 

And Porthos realized that he could not stand to damage their brotherhood any further. He put his hand on top of Aramis’, and d’Artagnan copied his gesture.

 

“Constance?” Aramis lifted his eyes to her, and her hand joined them. 

 

This time they did not say a word. They were still for a few moments, giving and taking comfort from the familiar contact of their hands. With any luck, the bond of their brotherhood would in time heal their damaged, bleeding souls.

 

Suddenly, Aramis closed his eyes. A tear slowly trailed down his cheek, and he slumped to the side. Porthos took him into his arms once again, allowing the marksman to lean against his chest for support

 

“Mis?” he whispered, his voice full of anguish.

 

His brother hummed softly. The sound was meant to show that he was still conscious, but it was not reassuring.

  
“Constance, please--get Deroux.” Porthos murmured, trying to fight the dread that was filling his heart. 


	64. Chapter 64

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos' POV

Athos

 

_ I failed… _

 

But if asked, he would not be able to say exactly how he had failed. Had he failed to make his brothers hate him? Or had he failed because he had hurt them so terribly in his attempt to make them reject him?

 

D’Artagnan and Constance went to fetch Deroux. Athos guessed that the pair needed a moment alone in order to regain their composure. He had said so many horrible things to them.

 

_ Tainted and damaged… _

 

They had worked hard to convince d’Artagnan that despite the abuse he had suffered, nothing had changed between them.  Finally, they had succeeded in getting the boy to move forward without seeking death at every possible opportunity. And now he, his mentor-- the one who should be his anchor, his lifeline--had destroyed everything in just a few seconds.

 

_ D’Artagnan deserved better. _

 

Milady’s words suddenly echoed in his mind. 

 

_ He deserves a better mentor, a better friend, a better brother… _

 

Athos took in a slow, deep breath. The stale air in the room was heavy with pain. Porthos glanced at him. He could sense the anger in his brother, and he completely understood. To be honest, he was shocked that the big man had not attacked him for his words... for the pain he inflicted on Aramis. 

 

Aramis...

The marksman’s eyes were closed, but from time to time a tremor passed through his body, followed by a tear or two escaping from below his long lashes. Athos was certain that physical pain was not the cause.

 

“Aramis?” he asked, his voice uncertain. Porthos’ stare froze him. The dark skinned musketeer was a master of intimidation. However, it was not the threat in his eyes which burned like liquid ice, but the hurt. 

 

He had not just enraged Porthos.  He had hurt him very deeply.

 

“Hmmm?” hummed the medic quizzically. 

 

Athos winced. Either Aramis did not want to speak to him, or did not have the strength to do it.

 

“How do you feel?” he asked hesitantly. He saw Porthos tense. 

 

_ What a stupid question! _

 

“Tired,” Aramis muttered, his fingers still intertwined with Porthos’. Athos suspected that the medic’s silent plea was the only reason that the big man remained silent. 

 

“I did not want to hurt you…” 

_ What a lame excuse for every word he had said!   _ Each of his words had been sharper than any blade.

 

_ Finish Aramis off.  _

Those had been Porthos’ words.

 

“Athos… you’ve already been forgiven. I know that you fear being forced to watch once again… I’m truly sorry for what you had to witness.”  Aramis’ voice was a barely audible whisper.

 

Athos shook his head, then cursed his carelessness as his headache strengthened its grip on him. In any other situation, Aramis would have been next to him, comforting him as he struggled with the pain. He realized with trepidation and shame that he missed his brother’s touch and soothing words. But Aramis lay motionless with his eyes closed, unaware of Athos’ suffering. 

 

The door suddenly opened, and d’Artagnan and Constance came in with Deroux. 

 

The young musketeer was holding Constance’s hand, and still seemed shaken. His sweetheart tried to look self-confident and calm, but her swollen eyes belied her composure. 

 

Deroux, on the other hand, just looked sleepy. However, he seemed to force himself to wake up, and briskly went over to Aramis. Porthos shifted his brother’s position so that the physician could examine him more easily.  

 

Athos watched as Deroux unwrapped the bandage and inspected the wound. From his vantage point, he could not see the doctor’s face.

 

“I need to clean it,” the doctor said finally. “I am sorry, but it will be painful.”

 

“Just do it,” Aramis replied dully, his hand searching for Porthos’. 

 

Athos watched their medic tense under Deroux’s ministrations. Aramis tried to remain silent, but a low moan finally escaped from his throat. His whole body trembled in pain. Athos could not understand how his brother was still awake.

 

_ Why can he not find some respite in unconsciousness ? Even this small mercy is being refused him! _

 

After what seemed like an eternity, Deroux finished. Constance passed him a steaming cup of liquid. He thanked her, then soaked the dressing with the herbal brew, and placed it on the wound. 

 

“How is he?” Athos asked.

 

“Bad. He should have improved with all the herbs we’ve been using, but the only thing we seemed to have achieved is slowing his deterioration.”

 

Athos could not breathe. He did not want to hear any more. If only he could flee! But that was not an option. Not only because he was physically just too weak. Deep down, he knew that he could never desert his brothers. Not in this terrible situation.

 

“Considering his medical history--all that he has been through--it doesn’t look promising.” Deroux seemed to struggle for words. He averted his eyes for a moment, then he looked directly at Athos.  “What I mean to say is...I am not optimistic about the outcome.”

 

“Wait! Do you mean that…”  Porthos could not even finish the sentence.

 

“I may die,” Aramis murmured, his words slurring.

 

“I am afraid there is that possibility, Monsieur.” The doctor looked grave. “I’ll change the poultice every two hours…and try to clean the wound as thoroughly as possible each time. But there is not much more I can do.” He was silent for a moment, then added quietly, “I am so sorry. I wish I had more to offer you.”

 

“I am grateful for your care,” the marksman replied softly. “As are my brothers.”

 

Deroux nodded, then slipped out of the room.

 

Porthos gathered Aramis into his arms, and started to slowly rock him. Aramis murmured something to the big man. His voice was too low for Athos to catch what he said. Porthos smiled in response, but his eyes were glistening with tears.

 

“Aramis...I cannot lose you!” Athos only realized that he had spoken out loud when Porthos shot him an accusing look.

 

“Porthos…”  Aramis reproved him gently, his voice soft, but steady. “We have a conversation to finish.”

 

“No!” Athos protested. “You should rest!” 

He knew he could not handle another conversation right now…

 

_ But the fact is, I started it...so if they want to talk, I should think of it a just punishment. If Aramis wants to talk, I owe him that much. I can handle the conversation...just please let it not be the last one we ever have. Please. _

 

“Athos, how can I possibly rest with with things as tense as they are between us?” the medic murmured. “We need to be honest with each other. Otherwise, we’ll only hurt each other more. Is that what you want, Athos?”

 

Athos felt a stab of guilt. “No...of course not,” he said hoarsely.

 

There was no way he would voluntarily cause any more harm to his brother.

 

The marksman exhaled slowly, then finally opened his eyes. Athos’ heart skipped a beat at the sight of the pain--mingled with hope--in those familiar brown orbs.

 

The hurt was obvious. Did Aramis still have enough faith to believe that they could find a way back to each other?  After all, it was the medic who had reminded them of their vow...

 

“I think I should give you some privacy,” Constance said quietly. Her dress rustled as she stood up.

 

Aramis spoke, but did not avert his gaze from Athos. “Please stay. You’re involved in all this.”

 

She glanced at d’Artagnan. He reached for her hand, and she sat down next to him once again.

 

“Guilt is eating us alive,” Aramis said, his eyes intense as they searched the faces of his brothers. “We should confront it… acknowledge it. Because guilt is what has caused all of us to behave so irrationally.”

 

Athos felt a sting of panic.  _ Confess his guilt?! Out loud? Hear himself admit how terribly he had failed? _

 

_ You killed our child. _

_ You sentenced your beloved wife to hang. _

_ You… _

 

“Athos!” Suddenly he realized that a hand was cupping his face. His eyelids fluttered open to see a pair of dark brown eyes searching his face. 

 

“Slow, deep breaths.”

 

He tried to obey, but all he could focus on were the images rushing through his mind.

 

_ Anne’s green eyes pleading with him to save her from the noose. _

_ Aramis’ gaze saying a silent goodbye. _

_ Despair slowly taking of them. _

_ D’Artagnan averting his eyes from his mentor. Skittish and frightened...so uncertain. _

_ Aramis, accepting humiliation in order to save their little brother, who was already doomed. _

 

“Mis! I failed you in every way possible!” Before he even had time to collect his thoughts, the words seemed to just pour out of him. “First, I left you two in Paris...then I wanted to leave you under Louise’s care and search for d’Artagnan without you… I did absolutely nothing to help you…”  His voice trailed off. He tried to remain silent for a few moments in order to curb his emotions, but his heart took over. 

 

“I know that it may look like I have consciously chosen to reject you, but…I hate watching you suffer and being unable to do anything to help you. I would like to be able to say that nothing has changed, but it would be a lie. When I look at you, I can’t see any obvious physical damage, but I feel like I was a witness to the death of your soul.  Your body is here, but I can’t help but see the emptiness in your eyes.” He paused for a moment, struggling to keep his voice steady before continuing

 

“I remember how you and d’Artagnan used to laugh and joke. You always attracted everyone’s attention....friends or enemies, it didn’t matter. Both of you challenged yourselves to live each day to the fullest.  I remember the wild zest for life that you had...that I so often envied. But now… you are so silent, so distant.” 

 

He took in a deep breath. “If I’m going to be completely honest, I have to admit that no matter how hard I try, I can’t forget what they did to you. And each time I think about it, I can’t even begin to imagine what it was like to go through what you did...and I have no idea how you've kept your hold on your sanity. Every time I close my eyes, I relive those terrible moments over and over.”  His voice began to tremble as he continued. 

 

“God forgive me, but I can’t even think of you without seeing those images...and I hate myself for it. I hate that this whole tragic experience somehow has come to define you…it’s just not right. And I since I didn’t know how to act around you, I decided that it was best to just let Porthos care for you. And so far, that has worked. The only problem is that you’re convinced that I can help d’Artagnan. How can I possibly help him?! I have my brother’s blood on my hands. I almost killed my wife. I managed to kill my child. Anne was carrying my child when I sentenced her to death. She told me that Thomas had tried to assault her… she begged me to believe her, and I chose not to. And…now---” he felt his throat tighten. “I am tortured by the very real possibility that she was telling the truth...and that my beloved brother was just as evil as your tormentors…”

 

A feeling of nausea began to build in his body, and he swallowed frantically. Being sick now was not an option. 

 

“When they were… torturing you--” 

 

The word  _ rape _ somehow could not pass his lips, not when it related to Aramis. Although his eyes were now focused on Aramis’ blanket, he still felt the medic’s gaze on him. 

 

“When I saw the light dying in your eyes, I began to despair...to believe that you wouldn’t survive.  I thought you would actually welcome death at that point. I had no hope when Treville had brought you back…but despite everything, you are still here with us. Sometimes, it still seems like a dream.” He paused, then continued, his voice raw with honesty.

 

“But Aramis, I am so grateful to have been given another chance. Although I may not know quite how to help you or how to act when I’m with you, there is no question that I’d be lost without you…”

 

His voice trailed off. He felt exhausted...and ashamed. Never in his life had he spoken so sincerely--or said so many words all at once.

 

Aramis gently lifted his head. Athos could not find enough strength to resist his eyes.

 

He felt utterly exposed, and was desperate for shelter. The thought that his had brothers listened to his entire speech suddenly seemed unbearable. He had destroyed their image of him as a natural leader, a man who was selfless and brave. He did not have the courage to look at them. But then somehow, he found himself staring into Aramis’ eyes. 

 

The marksman’s brown eyes were full of emotion. The same emotions which had been ravaging Athos. The former comte realized that he was shaking. He felt suffocated by the flood of raw images and feelings. Never before had his mind been so overwhelmed by emotions. He had always succeeded in ignoring them, whether it was by the strategic use of his will or by drinking several bottles of wine. Never before had they taken over his brain with their immense force and vibrant color--like the waves of the ocean on a windy day, with the contrasting shades of grey, green, and white… and with all their pulsing energy.

 

_ A man cannot possibly feel so much and  still remain sane.  _

 

Aramis took him in his arms.  _ “ _ Thank you, brother.” 

 

Athos leaned into his embrace. He allowed himself to seek comfort, and to receive it.

 

He could feel his brother’s body trembling, and his heart pounding.  And in spite of that, Aramis was offering him a lifeline. His very presence soothed Athos’ spirit.

 

When a hand started to stroke his hair, Athos stiffened. Then he allowed himself to slowly relax under the touch. He felt a presence behind him. 

 

And suddenly, Athos realized that instead of drowning in a sea of emotions, he was floating on its surface...safe in the presence of his brothers.

 

****  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N
> 
> I hope I haven’t disappointed you with this chapter. I am sorry I did not manage to post last week. I hope it was worth waiting.
> 
> Special thanks to my Beta - Riversidewren. All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> As I do not know when I’ll update I wish you all Merry Christmas / Yule!


	65. Chapter 65

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I should wish you Happy New Year now. Thank you for all your reviews. They make my day!

Aramis

 

Athos was in his arms, and was slowly calming down. The shivers were becoming less frequent. His breathing was more even and regular, instead of gasps mixed with sobs. The logical part of Aramis’ brain was not really surprised by all things which had been said. He had suspected most of them when he had been emotionally stable enough to do some speculating--when his perspective had not narrowed to focus on his unworthiness and pain. 

However, he had never expected to hear everything he had heard from his brother’s lips. He could only hope that this confession--the only sort of confession Athos would allow himself as a man who had rejected the sacrament--could help his friend. Aramis knew that it probably had been the hardest part of their conversation. After all, Athos was a man of few words, and carried a heavy burden of guilt, which always threatened to engulf him. 

The medic felt exhausted, but was driven by the need to continue the conversation until everything had been resolved.  If there was a possibility he might die, he needed to make sure that things had been put right. He needed to be sure that his brothers would be able to draw upon the strength of their bond in order to overcome the despair caused by his death. Otherwise, he feared for their sanity. 

He feared for Porthos. Previously, he had been quite certain that his friend’s strong self-preservation instinct would help him to work through the marksman’s loss. Porthos would obviously be devastated and despondent, but Aramis had been confident he would be able to overcome his despair in the end.  However, after the strain of the last few months, Aramis was no longer so sure. 

“Porthos?”  In order to meet his brother’s eyes, he twisted his head into a less than comfortable position.

The dark skinned musketeer seemed to understand his unspoken plea. He nodded slightly and started to speak.

“I failed all of you--on multiple occasions.  I allowed Allancourt’s men to capture you, I allowed those damned “True Musketeers” to do the same. Instead of searching for you, Aramis, I wallowed in the pain of your presumed death. Instead of looking for Athos and Constance, I planned to end my own life by embarking on a suicidal plan to kill Allancourt. I failed you all. But that is not the reason why I am so upset. I am just so afraid you’ll die on me, Aramis...I see it so often in my nightmares. I am just sorry that my dreams confused me enough to cause me to act irrationally.” He sighed, and slowly stroked Aramis’ hair. His hand was shaking. “There is nothing more to say.”

Aramis nodded. He did not expect much more from Porthos. His brother was never a mystery when it came to guilt. It was always about protection. Porthos solved all his other mistakes quickly. His friends never had to speculate about his motives. He did not look for complicated explanations for his behavior. The welfare of his brothers always was first in his mind. Unless he had purposely upset his brothers by his deeds or words, he never blamed himself for their bad moods.

“Constance?” Aramis turned to the young woman.

Athos flinched. The medic suspected that his leader had forgotten about her presence. 

“I feel guilty for not taking better care of your wounds, Aramis. I am the one to blame for your… for how close you are to death,” she sobbed. D’Artagnan took her in his arms. He looked stricken.

The medic wanted to tell Constance how wrong she was, but he knew it would be a mistake. This was a time for confession. She already knew she was forgiven. There was no anger or disappointment, but reassurances and comforting would not be successful now.

He knew that nobody could convince his friends that they were not to blame. They needed to feel as if they were getting a chance to purify their souls, even if it caused them pain. Aramis strongly believed that after they were done, things would be easier for all of them. He very much hoped that there was still an “after” for him other than purgatory or hell. However, he could not ignore the throbbing in his wound and the waves of coldness and dizziness, which seemed to torment him more and more frequently. These could not be good signs.

He continued his roll call. “D’Artagnan?”

The boy shuddered, and for one brief moment, gave Aramis a pleading look, as if begging to be allowed to remain silent. But then he seemed to understand that was not an option, and began to speak, his voice trembling and low.

“I pleaded with Aramis to remain conscious when we were tortured. I needed to hear his voice... to look him in the eye. I forced him to be there for me, instead of allowing him to seek merciful oblivion in unconsciousness. Then I… tried to get free and… he was punished for it. I was unable to watch while this was happening, so I allowed the bandits to play their game...and then I caused Aramis to believe he had been blinded.”

The marksman shivered as the memory of those awful moments crashed once again into his awareness, shattering all the walls he had carefully erected in his mind against them--.the walls that allowed him to not be disturbed by them… too often. He so clearly recalled the bitter taste of hopelessness. And it hit him hard when he suddenly realized that while he was being raped, he had still nursed in his traitorous heart the foolish hope of being rescued, of being nursed back to health...and of being once again made whole by his brothers. By Porthos. 

“Then… they took him. I did not believe that I had killed him, but… I was sure I’d never see him again… After everything that happened, I wanted to die. But my desire to die inflicted wounds on you. First, I shot Aramis. Flea told me it would hurt you too much if I committed suicide in an obvious way, so I left. You followed me, Athos and Aramis. Then Allancourt’s men found us…and you refused to let me die, Aramis. I hated you so much when you sacrificed yourself in order to try to save my life. I was not conscious enough to… be aware of everything. But… I know what they made you do. I cannot forgive myself for the fact that because of me, you were subjected to the worst degradation one man can inflict on another.”

Aramis tried to remain calm. He really did. But then he could feel the bile rising once again in his throat He disentangled himself frantically from Athos, and managed to reach the bucket just in time. He expelled what little was in his stomach. But somehow, in between heaves, he managed to motion to d’Artagnan to continue. He was grateful that Porthos was supporting him, as he suspected he might have otherwise ended up with his face in the bottom of the bucket. He berated himself for not realizing the impact d’Artagnan’s confession might make on him. However, there was nothing he could do now. So he lay in Porthos’ arms, breathing heavily. Athos’ warm hand lay on his back, and his quiet strength helped the medic pull himself together.

“I’m sorry,” the frightened Gascon whimpered.

“Don’t be. Continue,” Aramis whispered hoarsely.

“I… I am the only one to blame for what happened… If not… for me… you would remained safe in Louise’s house… I was so sure, you had died because of me, as Athos told me you… did not survive… I was watching… Porthos holding what I thought was your lifeless body, and I just...felt so selfish that all I had accomplished with my own attempt to die was to cause the death of someone who was...so loved and cared for…”  D’Artagnan did not even attempt to hide his tears.

“All I wanted was to die… and then… you ruined my plan me by telling me that if I killed myself, that you would do the same. And… all I could think of was Porthos and Athos finding us dead… I hated you for forcing me to give up my plan, but you won in the end. From that time, each day when I woke up, I told myself I had no choice--I had to carry on. Somehow, it started to become less of a conscious choice. All the danger we have faced here at Fontainebleau helped me to focus on the present. When I kept vigil at your bedside after you tested the poison, I felt so helpless...and so guilty I could do nothing to ease your suffering. And yet everyone believed that I could help you. I did not deserve their trust… I feel like I was lost…like a leaf floating in the wind. All control over my life had been taken from me. I could not possibly find my own way, so I clung to all of you, hoping that either you--or death--would give me back my sense of self. I feel like I’ve lost so much. My sense of honor, my sense of purpose… everything I once used as a guide to show me the path I should follow. At one time or another, all of you have called me a pup. But now I do really feel like one--a lost, damaged pup in a world which is much too cruel and complicated for its soul.”

D’Artagnan trailed off, laying his head on Constance’s lap. She gently stroked his hair, her face wet with tears. The room was silent once again. Now that his nausea had abated, Aramis shifted his position in order to make himself more comfortable. He knew it was now his turn to speak, but  was reluctant to start. He did not want to be interrupted, and he was certain that Deroux would come to check on him soon. So he waited, allowing everyone some time to recover a bit.

The soft knock on the door confirmed his suspicion. He murmured for the visitor to enter, and the physician walked in. He looked around the room, wrinkling his nose when he caught the smell of the bucket.

“Who was sick?” he asked.

“Me,” Aramis replied briefly.  He knew that the doctor would consider this another bad sign, but at this point, he didn’t care. He did not want to have to explain what had happened.

The doctor looked concerned, but merely asked,“How do you feel now?”

“Been better,” Aramis replied, his voice heavy with fatigue. At present, he was unsure if his condition was due to the infection or to the emotional strain he had been under. It was probably both.

He allowed the doctor to examine him. The procedure was quite painful. Aramis was left gasping for air, with rivulets of cold sweat running down his face and neck. He welcomed the warm poultice that Deroux placed on his wound. It hurt, but for the moment, succeeded in banishing the cold which had tormented him. The physician insisted on giving Aramis with an herbal tea that was thick with honey. He then left, promising to return in two hours.

The marksman lay quietly in Porthos’ arms. His eyelids were heavy with sleep, and he felt overwhelmed by both emotional and physical fatigue. However he feared that if he fell asleep, he might not wake up...so he forced himself to continue their talk. After all, it was now his turn.

He took a deep breath, wincing when his ribs protested. He felt Porthos’ warm hand on his cheek, and the need to lean into his touch was too strong to resist.

“Christine died because of me. We had an affair. She was pregnant. She might have been carrying my child...or it might have been her husband’s. There is no way to know. But ultimately, I am to blame for her death. He deliberately shot her in the abdomen. She… suffered so much… I… rendered her unconscious a few times.  If I am honest with myself, I have to confess that I am very afraid that… another person may end up dying because of our relationship.”

Athos shifted nervously. He looked at Aramis, and his silent question seemed to echo loudly in the room.

“Yes. They know,” Aramis replied dully. “Another sin… I couldn’t keep lying to them.” He gave Porthos a rueful smile. “I never was very good at hiding the truth.”  He was silent for a moment, then continued.

“It’s my fault d’Artagnan was captured. I should have done a better job of protecting him. It never occurred to me that he might be Allancourt’s target. When we were there… I too often just chose to let my mind drift away while trying to shield myself. But I… witnessed what they did to him.” His eyes darkened, and he spoke with intensity.

“You have to believe me when I say that I tried to stop them. I did everything I could. But I am afraid it only made things worse for d’Artagnan. When you found me...when I realized that I was not blind, the only thing which kept me going was the search for our little brother. I was torn between feeling unworthy of your attention and desperately needing your support. I craved opportunities to spend time with you. I used the fact that you were wounded to create situations where I could feel your touch. I was torn between a foolish hope--or rather an instinct for self-preservation--and despair. I wanted so much to believe that you needed me. I believe this is why I survived. Porthos, you told me that you needed me. I remember seeing the garden--and seeing Isabelle waiting for me. But when I heard your desperate pleas, things changed.  It seemed as if she was content without me, but you were in utter despair. I heard your voices. I felt your presence, and you would not let me go. Many times I asked myself if you really needed me around, as I seem to be more trouble than I’m worth. But cannot stand the thought of being rejected....”, he trailed off for a moment but there was so much more to say.

“When they captured us, Athos… and demanded to sign the confession I was so terrified. I could not do it and in the same time I could not let them to torture. I have been still asking the same question -do they know anything? Or if I were innocent would I sign it to save you pain? And I don’t know the answer… I am sorry for not taking the right care of your wounds. I blame myself for my inability to fight the poison with which they had treated you, Athos. I’ve never wanted to give you nightmares, Porthos…”

“I am tired of pain, both physical and emotional. The latter is the worst. I am tired of my own fears and doubts. Too often I must remind myself that you need me, that you are the reason I live. I cannot let you down by letting go. Not after all things you did for me. Sometimes… it’s so difficult…I am very aware of how damaged I am. What once used to give me joy and… allowed to recover, to escape my own thoughts after Savoy--now terrifies me. I tell myself that as long as I can fight and tend wounds, I am useful… so there is reason to stay with you. One part of me thinks that I should leave and seek shelter in a monastery, but the other part knows that will sentence me to a slow and unpleasant death. If I am truly honest, I know that I cannot live without you.”

 

“They took away my dignity, my honor… They also robbed me of the joy in my life and the fire in my heart. I try to… keep going by thinking about how lucky I am to have all of you-- for me when I feel good - when I am not suffering… Sometimes I think that the fact that I know how one should deal with a rape victim makes things worse, not better. I know what should work but -- it doesn’t. So yes, I feel tainted. Which really makes no sense, because if you were to ask me if I would perceive any other rape victim this way, I would say no. But knowing that doesn’t change how I feel. I am well aware that I am a burden for you-- and we’re not talking about needing a month or two to recover from physical wounds… I… have never been whole after Savoy, and this damaged me further. Sometimes I really think that only your will keeps me going… There are moments when I find the hope to trust that I will learn how to live again. There are moments when I gain temporary freedom from myself. But then a part of my brain tells me how ridiculous it is to believe that I’ll ever be normal again...and then the return to despair is even more painful. I fear one day it will be just too much for you and… you will just start to avoid me. And I know I’ll be the only one to blame, because if I were not a lost cause you would not leave me…”


	66. Chapter 66

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos' POV

Athos

 

You would not leave me if I wasn’t a lost cause...  
Lost cause? You?  
It’s about me, not you. 

 

He looked at Aramis’ face. It was much too pale. The marksman, clearly exhausted, was half reclining, supported by Porthos. The big man was the only reason that the medic was not totally flat on the bed. Aramis, his eyes now closed, was shivering slightly. He looked so ill that Athos had to choke back the sob which threatened to escape from his throat.

 

There was so many things which still needed to be said. But Athos felt as if there were no words left in him. He realized with trepidation that he was too tired to even extend his hand to touch Aramis’. 

 

The swordsman remained motionless. His eyes, wide open, were fixed on the shadows that were gathering in the corners of the room. He felt utterly fatigued, like a horse that has been ridden into the ground. Even the very act of breathing seemed exhausting. His outer calm belied the wild pounding of his heart, betraying the inner turmoil of his soul.

 

He was surprised when he felt a cool porcelain cup touch his lips. 

 

“Drink.” Constance’s voice was soft, but commanding. He allowed the cold liquid to enter his mouth. It was another herbal draught. He swallowed, then realized how dry his throat was. He took several more swallows, ignoring the bitter taste as he drank greedily.

 

When he finished, she gave him a warm smile. “I’ll give you some more soon.”

 

How can you still smile at me? After everything I said?!  
Do you love him so much that you are willing to put up with me? 

 

“You should sleep. All of you!” Constance said briskly. 

 

Athos was grateful that she did not want to talk. He was certain that the sleep would elude him, but he closed his eyes anyway.

 

He must have finally drifted into oblivion, as he came to awareness only when he heard the door open slowly.

 

Constance aimed her pistol at the entrance, only lowering it when she recognized Deroux. Athos was a bit surprised that the doctor had faithfully continued to come just as he had promised - every two hours - to check on their Spaniard. 

 

“Porthos?” Constance gently touched the musketeer’s arm. Aramis was nestled against Porthos’ chest, his face hidden. While he was in that position, there was no way that Deroux could check on his wound.

 

“I am sorry to disturb you, Messieurs, but I have to change the poultice.” The doctor's voice was soft and tired.

 

Porthos blinked sluggishly, then gently stroked Aramis’ hair.  
“Mis, I have to let Dr. Deroux change your bandages.”

 

The marksman showed no reaction.   
“Mis?”Porthos’ voice was thick with worry.  
Athos’ heart sank. Had Aramis died while they were sleeping?!! 

 

The physician wasted no time in rushing over to Aramis and Porthos.  
“Aramis?!” Porthos shook the limp marksman none too gently. Athos could not help but think that it looked as if the big man was shaking a rag doll. 

 

Deroux laid his hand on Porthos’ arm, motioning for him to stop. He leaned over and checked Aramis’ pulse. Athos held his breath. He could not avert his gaze from the tragedy that seemed to be unfolding before his eyes. 

 

“He’s alive.” Deroux spoke softly, but his voice was strained. “But this is a very bad sign. I fear he may never regain consciousness.”

 

The finality of these words hit Athos like a thunderbolt. He was shaken to the core, his very being fighting to reject those awful words.

 

He heard Porthos gasp. The dark skinned musketeer was struggling to breathe, as if he were a fish out of water. His tearful eyes searched Athos’. It was an instinctive reaction. Porthos, drowning in despair, was seeking his leader’s support....in spite of all that Athos has said...in spite of all the words that had wounded Aramis’ soul.

 

“You’re not going to treat him like he’s a lost cause! It’s Aramis, and he is still alive! You will continue to do everything you can!” D’Artagnan stared at the physician, his dark eyes piercing.

 

“Monsieur… I assure you that I’ll do my best. However, you should prepare yourselves in case…”

 

“No!” D’Artagnan shook his head vehemently. “We won’t! We’ll fight for him, just as we always have. Besides--” he paused, his voice cracking with emotion. “There is no possible way to prepare yourself to lose a part of your soul.”

 

Porthos gave the Gascon a look of deep gratitude. 

 

Athos was surprised by the depth of the boy’s emotion. He felt his fondness for the boy give a small lift to his tired heart. He was so proud of d’Artagnan.

 

I should have told him how I am proud of him. But instead, I told him how damaged he was.

 

Deroux nodded, and Athos wondered if he had missed part of the conversation. He watched intently as the physician put a new poultice on the wound, and wrapped it in a fresh bandage. Aramis did not move a muscle.

 

“Get him to take as much draught as you can, but in very small portions. He may vomit, so watch him closely. I know you want to keep disturbances to a minimum, but if there is any change, call me immediately.” Deroux left the mixture of herbs near the fireplace.

 

Porthos gathered Aramis into his arms once again, burying his face in the marksman's hair.

 

Deroux, standing at the door, glanced back one more time at his patient. “Perhaps you should lay him down?” he suggested uncertainly. 

 

“Am I hurting him?” Porthos’ voice betrayed his worry and fear.

 

“No,” the physician answered softly, then closed the door behind him. 

 

Porthos started to sob. The sound was heartbreaking, but Athos could not find any words to comfort him. The hope in his heart was fading fast. It seemed that would lose their brother after all. Aramis, who always had seemed to them like a cat with nine lives, had finally come to the end of his journey.

 

“Don’t give up on him!” muttered d’Artagnan, his voice fierce.

 

He wanted us to talk. His last desire was for us to be reconciled. He sacrificed his last hours on earth to help us.

 

“He loves us. He’ll fight for us.”   
D’Artagnan’s firm words reached him. Athos glanced at boy quizzically.

 

“Aramis won’t desert us of his own volition,” the Gascon said calmly. “He knows how much we care for him. He has done everything he can to grant peace to our souls in case he dies. But if that happens, he also knows we will never find real peace until we are dead as well.”

 

The boy definitely has spent too much time with Aramis. He understands him so well. He knows the same hell…

 

Damn! I’m doing it again. I am seeing them through the lens of the torture they have survived. What is wrong with me? It is so unfair to continue to think of them in that way!

 

“Athos, I need you to drink some broth.” Constance was at his side.

 

He could not do it. He was sick to his stomach. But he also knew that he needed some sustenance in order to continue to keep vigil at Aramis’ side...in order to be there to support Porthos when they lost their brother. 

 

He sat up slowly, and accepted the cup from Constance. She looked so guilty.

 

“It’s not your fault,” he whispered.

 

She lowered her gaze, fighting back the tears with difficulty.

 

He slowly drank the broth, watching as Constance tried to get Aramis to drink some herbal tea.

 

“Porthos… I need to get to him, please…” Her voice was soft, but pleading.

 

The dark skinned musketeer shifted Aramis a bit in order to make her task easier to perform, but he never broke contact with his brother.

 

Constance touched the cup to Aramis’ lips, and he somehow swallowed a sip or two. Porthos, still holding Aramis tightly, was visibly trembling.

 

He must have felt Athos’ gaze on him, as he muttered, “I need to hold him in my arms while he’s still breathing… I need to remember him breathing…” his tremulous voice trailed off for a moment, and then rose. “Christ! I need him alive!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry I have not replied to all your reviews yet. Celebrating is a tiring thing ;)
> 
> All goodness, happiness and love in 2017!


	67. Chapter 67

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treville's POV

Treville

 

He was not sure what had woken him up, but his hand instinctively slid to his dagger. He waited, pretending to be sleep.  A shadow slipped into the room, then headed to the door that led to the room where Florentine was being held. A second shadow followed. Treville silently picked up his primed pistol, which lay on the night table. 

 

“May I help you, gentleman?” he asked in a loud voice.

 

A muttered curse was his only answer.

 

“You have two choices. Drop your weapon--or die.” 

 

Without hesitation, the two men charged the Captain. He shot the one closest to him, and the man dropped to the floor like a stone.  His companion jumped over him with surprising agility, then lunged at the Captain with his rapier. Treville barely managed to block him with his main gauche. He immediately dropped his spent pistol, and seized his sword. 

 

The room was silent except for the clash of blades were heard. Treville’s opponent was quite skilled with his weapon, but the Captain managed to find a weakness in his defensive stance.  Pressing his advantage, Treville sliced his rapier through the air, opening a long, shallow gash across the man’s chest. The bandit gasped in pain. Although the wound was superficial, it clearly hampered him, causing him to make careless mistakes. Finally, the musketeer managed to disarm him.

 

Treville found it disturbing that no one had come running to investigate the gunshot. He quickly bound his prisoner, using some rope that had been left by his men. Then he cautiously opened the door. He cursed when his eyes fell upon Etienne, who lay crumpled on the floor. The man’s hand was clutching his midsection, the blood dark against his fingers. 

 

“Etienne!” Treville knelt near him. 

 

The musketeer moaned softly.  “They came for her!” he gasped.

 

“I know. I took care of them,” Treville said quietly. “How many of them were there?” he asked, suddenly feeling uneasy.

 

“Five left alive after… they met us…” Etienne whispered.

 

There were hurried footsteps in the corridor. Treville took up a defensive stance in front of his wounded musketeer, only to relax when he saw Philippe approaching them. He returned to Etienne’s side, and held pressure on the man’s wound. 

 

“Sir! We caught one alive! Two others are dead.”

 

_ Did they really came for the girl? If so, she has to know something important… something that made them take such a risk. After all, they came to free her. _

 

_ Or perhaps to kill her. _

 

“Fetch Deroux!” he ordered.”Then secure the prisoners.”

 

Before anyone could go to find him, Deroux appeared at the end of corridor. The doctor grimaced at the gory scene, and a sinking feeling came over Treville.

 

“Put him on the table! And get me some light so I can examine him,” he ordered.

 

The Musketeers instantly obeyed, hurriedly clearing the table of documents and maps. They then laid Etienne on it, trying to not to cause him too much pain in the process.

 

Treville and Philippe did their best to hold the wounded man still during the doctor's examination. 

 

Deroux, his voice full of urgency, called for Philippe to go retrieve some of his medical instruments. However, he could not waste precious time waiting for the musketeer, as Etienne’s wound was bleeding profusely. As he began to work, the injured man mercifully lost consciousness. Finally, Philippe returned with requested the items. In that moment, Treville realized that Deroux already his medical bag with him. 

 

However, he waited until the doctor had finished suturing the wound before he asked the question.

 

“How is it that you arrived so well prepared?” the Captain asked.  “Did you hear the fight while it was going on?” He doubted that was the case, as the physician was completely dressed.  _ Was he in league with the conspirators? _

 

“No, Captain,” Deroux said quietly. “Actually, I was just coming from seeing your men. I thought you should be informed that one of them is in a very grave condition at this time.”

 

Treville froze. 

 

“It’s Monsieur Aramis. I am sorry, but I think it unlikely that he will survive. It’s likely just a matter of hours now. I know you will want to be with your men.” 

 

The Captain found himself thinking that Deroux must hate to have to say things like that. His voice was flat and empty, his eyes cold, but it was clear that he was struggling to remain professional and composed. 

 

_ If Aramis dies, no one will be able to control Porthos. He will be in the worst kind of rage--one that is born out of despair. _

 

“I will go to them right now.” He hesitated, then asked, “What about Etienne?”

 

“It’s too early to say for sure, but he has a good chance of surviving.”

 

The Captain nodded. He needed to find the courage to face the death of one of his best men-- and he needed it even more to face the grief of his brothers.

 

Aramis had a special place in his heart. He had been one of his first recruits. The marksman had survived Savoy… he had served as a living reminder of the massacre for Treville, and also had served as his chance for redemption. 

 

He left Etienne, and headed off to see his best men. He knocked lightly on the door, and it  opened slowly. D’Artagnan, his cheeks stained with tears, motioned for the Captain to come in.

 

_ Am I too late?! _

 

“Aramis?” the Captain asked. He hated how soft his voice sounded. 

 

“Still with us.” D’Artagnan stepped back, allowing his commander to approach the bed. 

 

Treville’s sigh of relief was halted by the sight which met his eyes. The room was dim, but he could make out Aramis lying limp in Porthos’ arms. A pillow was positioned between the marksman’s head and the big man’s arm, and Aramis’ face was visible.  The Captain guessed that this position was in order to grant access to the wound. 

 

The wound which would likely soon prove to be fatal.

 

A fresh poultice was covering the area. The herbal scent was intense, and it served to successfully cover any smell of infection. 

 

Aramis’ lips were partially open. His breathing was too fast to be reassuring. Treville put his hand on the man’s forehead. He winced when he felt cold skin underneath his fingers. But even more disturbing than Aramis’ worsened condition was Porthos’ lack of reaction to his commander’s presence. The big man was conscious, but was totally oblivious to the world around him, his face was hidden in Aramis’ mop of thick hair. The sound of his sobbing was heartbreaking. 

 

Treville laid his hand on Porthos’ arm, but the musketeer showed no reaction.

 

_ Does it make any sense at all to try to coax him into consciousness again? Deroux does not hold out any hope. But this is not the Porthos I know. This is a devastated man. I should have known it might end like this. The bond which saved them so many times will end up killing both of them. But without that bond, we would have lost both of them a long time ago. _

 

“What did Deroux tell you?” he asked d’Artagnan. Athos appeared to be asleep-or was feigning sleep. 

 

“That Aramis probably will never regain consciousness. But he is wrong!”  There was something in d’Artagnan’s eyes-something like a memory of past fire and faith. But it was still there.

 

_ And it will be there so long as Aramis lives. _

 

“Deroux told us to give him the herbal tea as often as possible, but he warned us that he may not tolerate it,” Constance added.

 

“I will stay with you,” Treville said quietly. ‘Why don’t you try to catch some sleep?” 

 

“I should prepare breakfast. I hope you’ll help me feed them, Captain.” The redhead gave him a tearful smile as she stood up. She swayed a bit, then regained her balance, waving his hands off. 

 

He felt uneasy. It was not a good idea for Constance to be alone, but it would be even worse to force d’Artagnan to choose between guarding his sweetheart and spending the last precious moments with his dying brother. 

 

So he allowed Constance to leave. 

 

He watched d’Artagnan spoon some tea into Aramis’ mouth. Somehow, the marksman was still able to swallow it.

 

When the Gascon stood up to fill the cup with some more of the draught, Treville gingerly took his place. He touched Aramis’ hand. 

 

_ Where is your rosary? Who has taken it from you?  _

 

Treville reached for the cross he wore himself. It was a simple piece of wood that his father had given him on his eighth birthday. He rarely took it off, and usually kept it safely tucked under his shirt. Now he slowly drew it out from the folds of cloth, and placed it in Aramis’ limp hand. He gently folded the marksman’s fingers around the cross.

 

“Your brothers need you, Aramis. Please fight, son… for them and for me.”

 

D’Artagnan hesitantly passed him the cup. The boy must have understood that Treville planned to stay. He sat down near Athos.  

 

“You have to fight. I order you to fight--to come back! Your brothers won’t make it without you. You’re too important to them… you are their light, their hope… I remember when we first met. You were wounded, and still almost a child. But I never forgot the fire in your eyes. The hope you gave to the others, who were also terribly young and frightened. You believed that you’d survive. All of you. That day, I knew that if it wasn't my last day in battle I’d do anything to have you under my command… so it’s too early to resign your commission! Definitely too early. You have scared Porthos too many times recently. It is your task to make him whole again. You’re his closest friend. If he is grieving and you’re… not here, who will fish Athos out of the wine bottle? Who will teach d’Artagnan how to improve his marksmanship?”

 

He reached for some tea, and gently spooned some into Aramis’ mouth. He had the impression that the marksman’s cheek leaned into his warm hand. He watched the pale, lax face intently, but nothing suggested that he was closer to regaining consciousness.

 

_ I’m imagining things… _

 

D’Artagnan handed him a fresh poultice. The Captain unwrapped the wound. It still looked infected. He rinsed it with alcohol, then cleaned it using a cloth that had been freshly soaked in herbs. Aramis showed no reaction to these ministrations, which were undoubtedly painful. Treville put the poultice in place, then took Aramis’ hand in his once more.

 

“You’re one of the best soldiers I’ve ever met--and also one of the most insubordinate. Your recklessness makes you a genius, but also a whole lot of trouble. When… the news of Savoy came to me, it was said that there were no survivors. I grieved all my lost men, but the prospect of losing your joyful presence forever terrified me. Because of your indiscreet dalliances, I have never been able to persuade King to give you a promotion… Richelieu was too adamant in his opposition. I know that you’ll never have the money to buy it… but you deserve it--more than anyone.”

 

He trailed off. The silence, broken only by soft breathing, quickly became oppressive. Porthos was finally quiet. He had likely cried himself to sleep. D’Artagnan, curled up at Athos’ side, had also succumbed to Morpheus’ call. 

 

He should really wake the boy and have him check on Constance, but he did did not have the heart to disturb him. At the moment, the redhead appeared with a breakfast tray. She gazed at him quizzically, her eyes wandering over Aramis’ motionless form.

 

“No change,” he whispered. “Let them sleep.”

 

She nodded, and sat down on the spare chair. He was not surprised when her head began to nod, then drooped forward onto her chest. He stood up, and went over to her. Picking her up, he carried her over to where the men were sleeping. As he gently laid her down, she mumbled something, but did not open her eyes. He covered her with a blanket, then returned to his vigil. 

 

It was time to give Aramis some more tea. He held the spoon near the unconscious musketeer’s mouth and… it must have been his wishful thinking, but it seemed as if the man’s lips searched for more liquid. He gingerly placed the edge of the cup to the man’s lips,  allowing the liquid to flow, drop by drop, into his mouth. Aramis swallowed it. 

 

Treville must have disturbed the curtains slightly when he put Constance on the bed, as a single timid ray of sun entered the darkness of the chamber, and danced on Aramis’ face. In that trembling light, the marksman’s long lashes seemed to flutter. 

 

“Aramis!” Treville pleaded in a desperate whisper. “Open your eyes, son!”  He held his breath, afraid to hope.

 

_ I must be very tired… I swear his eyelids just moved. Is he regaining consciousness--against all odds--or are these his last moments? Should I wake Porthos up? _

 

Aramis breathing was slow and ragged. Treville’s heart clenched in panic as he waited for the next breath. It finally came, and Aramis shuddered. Once more, the Captain had the sense that the dying man leaned into his touch. 

 

_ The dying man...God… Aramis, how can I even think about you in that way?  _

 

He should wake up Porthos. Something was happening with the marksman--and only a fool would still hope…

 

He reached towards Porthos, intending to wake him. His hand froze in mid-air when he saw Aramis’ lashes flutter visibly. A wince flickered across the Spaniard’s handsome features.

 

“Please, wake up!” the Captain whispered, his palm gently cupping the marksman’s face.

 

Aramis shivered slightly. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Treville grabbed the cup and touched it to the medic’s lips.

 

“Drink!” he ordered.

 

The medic obeyed. 

 

Treville tried to suppress the flood of hope that threatened to overwhelm his heart.  This meant nothing. 

 

But he could not stop the words that tumbled out of his mouth.

 

“Please, open your eyes!” he pleaded, rubbing Aramis’ cheek with his fingers.

 

The marksman’s eyelids fluttered, and brown slits were suddenly visible underneath them.

 

“Aramis?” Treville held his breath, afraid to hope.

 

“Captain?”  The marksman seemed confused. He looked so young--so fragile. His eyes slowly focused on his commanding officer.

 

“It’s good to see you awake. How do you feel?”

 

“Thirsty.”  The injured man moved his free hand in order to place it on Porthos’, but the dark skinned musketeer showed no reaction.

 

The musketeers’ leader squeezed Porthos’ arm in order to wake up him. The big man deserved to see his brother conscious. Even if only to say goodbye.

 


	68. Chapter 68

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

Aramis

The rays of the sun caressed his face. He sensed that he was supported by a source of warmth, which vibrated with a steady rhythm. A rare feeling of safety embraced him. There was only one place on earth he could feel so peaceful - Porthos' arms.

But the voice he heard talking did not belong to his beloved friend. His mind lazily identified its owner - Treville.

His brain slowly began to recognize words. His Captain was insisting on waking him up. Aramis did not feel like allowing the pain from his injuries to surface again. He resisted the pull of consciousness, which brought with it the promise of fresh agony.

However, he knew resistance was futile, especially after a cup was pressed to his lips. He drank greedily, only to belatedly realize that the sweet herbal draught would only intensify his thirst.

Aramis reluctantly started the climb to full awareness. Memories flooded into his brain, abruptly stopping his progress. He was not sure if he was ready to face his brothers. He preferred to stay in the safe, warm cocoon that Porthos had created.

"Aramis, open your eyes, son!" Treville's words surprised him. Even though they were delivered as an order, they sounded so desperate.

Aramis' eyelids fluttered of their own volition. The image of a very worried Captain leaning over him gradually came into focus. Something was definitely wrong, but Aramis' mind was too foggy to make sense of the situation.

"Captain," he croaked, wincing at how hoarse his voice sounded. He was rewarded by one of Treville's rare smiles.

When asked how he felt, the marksman, as he had at the ruins, offered the easiest answer. All he could think about was drinking some water or wine.

Treville nodded, then immediately called Porthos. There was an urgency in his voice that made Aramis uneasy. He realized that one of his hands was bound up with something, and was lying on the Captain's lap. The other, however, was free to search for his brother. He found Porthos' hand, and squeezed it gently. His brother was fast asleep, and stirred only when Treville's calls brought Constance and d'Artagnan to awareness. The redhead seemed confused as she sat on the bed and tried to shake off her slumber. The Gascon, on the other hand, rushed to Aramis and embraced him.

"You're awake!"

Aramis felt Porthos' breath hitch as the man finally regained his senses.

"MIS?!" he cried desperately.

"He's awake, Porthos!" DArtagnan let out a nearly hysterical laugh.

"I'm here," whispered Aramis, squeezing Porthos' hand once again.

His brother took him from d'Artagnan's arms.

"Mis…" Porthos' eyes were red and puffy, and his face was full of sorrow. Aramis gasped in shock.

Immediately, Porthos shivered, and tightened his grip on the medic. His muffled sob broke the marksman's heart.

"Porthos!", he whispered.

"Don't die!" his brother pleaded desperately.

Aramis shifted a bit, and reached to cup his brother's face in his hand. He hated how weak he felt.

"I'm here. I'm not going anywhere," he said, forcing his words to sound stronger than he felt.

He caught the sight of his other hand, and was shocked to see the Captain's cross wound around his palm. _So it was that bad._

Porthos clung to him, his heart beating frantically. Aramis gently stroked his short hair. He saw how his brother instinctively sought his touch, and he smiled. Porthos needed physical contact as much as he did, although usually it was a short pat or a hasty embrace. However, the ease with which he always accepted Aramis' need for closeness suggested that the dark skinned musketeer liked it as well.

_Liked, not needed._

_At least usually it's that way...because he obviously needs it now._

Aramis' fingers played with his brother's short locks. Porthos started to calm a bit, his breathing no longer resembling sobs.

"How do you feel?" the big man asked.

"Sorry it took me so long, Aramis, but here is your tea." The Captain looked guilty as he approached with a cup.

The marksman extended his hand, wincing when he realized how unsteady it was. He was not at all surprised when Treville ignored it, choosing to spoon the tea into his mouth instead.

He wanted to protest, as he would have preferred something less sweet. However, he knew that he always insisted that his patients drink herbal tea first, especially when the prognosis was as grave as the one Deroux had given him. So he obeyed. After he had finished, he murmured, "May I have some water?"

Treville poured some hot water from the jug on the fireplace into his cup, and handed it back to him. Aramis drank eagerly, wanting to wash the bittersweet taste from his mouth. He appreciated that the Captain had been careful to give him hot water, not cold.

"What do you think, Captain?" Constance asked. "Can we give Aramis some food?"

The young woman hesitated, glancing at Aramis. He guessed the question was directed at him as well.

Aramis closed his eyes, trying to assess his condition. It was only then that it hit him.

"Athos?!" He looked around the room, his eyes frantically searching for his brother. Despite the commotion around him, the lieutenant was still asleep.

Constance checked on him. "He's breathing. I think he still has a low-grade fever.".

"I will fetch the doctor," Treville said.

D'Artagnan nodded. "Good idea. He did ask us to let him know if there was any change in Aramis' condition."

Porthos looked uneasy. "But this is a change for the better, isn't it?" His fingers dug into Aramis' arm, and the medic bit his lower lip in order to hold back a hiss of pain.

"Yes, it is," Aramis replied, trying to sound reassuring. He looked at his friend. "Porthos, I really need to check on Athos."

The big man sighed, obviously not happy with the idea, but he helped the medic over to where Athos lay. D'Artagnan shook the swordsman gently, and received a mumbled protest in response.

"Allow me…" The marksman knelt on the bed, still supported by Porthos. He placed his fingers on his brother's wrist, searching for his pulse. It was fast, and somewhat thready. Aramis gently placed his hand on Athos' forehead. Constance had probably been right about the fever.

"Porthos?" He touched his friend's hand in order to remind himself of what a human body that had a normal temperature felt like.

_A mild fever._

_Not bad-but it it hasn't broken yet. A bit worrisome. I just wish I knew what poison he had been given! I really need to learn more about poisons._

The marksman sighed heavily, and tapped the swordsman's cheek.

"Athos!"

The former comte murmured something unintelligible, and tried to avoid his brother's hand.

"Athos…" Aramis felt his strength fading quickly, and found it incredibly irritating.

Constance sat on the opposite side of the bed, and washed Athos' face with a cold cloth. The musketeer growled in protest, blinking sluggishly.

"Go to hell," he muttered.

Aramis raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, but I must decline your gracious invitation. I prefer to stay on earth for now."

Athos groaned.

"How do you feel, brother?" Aramis asked, his voice coaxing.

"Leave me alone!" the swordsman mumbled, curling up in a ball.

"I will if you tell me what hurts."

Athos shivered. "You never change…not as a ghost, or as a hallucination…"

The medic was puzzled. "What's wrong, brother?"

He suddenly felt exhausted. All he could think about was lying down. He was obviously not fit enough to take care of his brother properly.

_No. This is not happening! I can take care of Athos._

A hasty knock was heard on the door, which flew open an instant later. Deroux rushed into the room, then came to an abrupt stop.

"Monsieur Aramis?!"

The marksman held a dagger, ready to throw it if necessary. His hand was shaking.

_I'm useless. There is no way my aim would be true._

The Spaniard glared at him. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm still breathing." He was frustrated by his weakness, and feared for Athos.

"I need you to check on Athos," he added, his voice urgent.

Porthos sighed. "Please do. Aramis won't let you examine him until you do."

The Spaniard gratefully squeezed his brother's hand.

"I know you, Mis," Porthos murmured fondly.

Deroux tried to speak to Athos, and got a "Go away!" in response, growled in a way that would intimidate anyone.

Treville intervened. "Athos! Let the doctor examine you. That's an order!"

The swordsman mumbled something in response, but allowed the doctor to check his pulse.

"Athos, we need to know what hurts you... and be honest!" the Captain ordered. Aramis rewarded him with a quick smile. He felt grateful. Grateful for Porthos' presence, and grateful for Treville's support.

The feeling was overwhelming. He wanted to allow this feeling carry him off to sleep, but Athos' words suddenly jolted him awake.

"My head, my stomach… I'm having hallucinations… I saw him alive, sir." Athos' voice broke.

He hissed when the doctor started his examination, but lay still, stoically waiting for the torment to end.

"I suspect that the poison, in combination with lack of food and dehydration, is driving his fever. If he eats and drinks, it should resolve in time."

"Resolve in time?" Athos voice was full of pain and irony.

_He thinks I'm dead._

Aramis took Athos' hand in his.

"I am not a hallucination. I am here. Alive."

"He's telling the truth," Porthos said softly.

Athos blinked, then stared at the medic in shock. "Aramis…" he whispered.

The exhausted marksman sank down on the bed, then lay down next to his brother.

"No!" Deroux said sternly. "No one is going to sleep yet! Give Monsieur Athos some broth. I'm going to check on Monsieur Aramis."

D'Artagnan and Constance followed the doctor's orders, and Athos groaned. Aramis tightened his grip on Porthos when his bandage was removed in order to prepare the wound for inspection. The tension in the room increased.

Aramis winced when the doctor probed the most painful area on his head.

"The infection seems to be a bit better," Deroux mused.

"Will he live?" Treville's voice was quiet. The marksman felt Porthos tense.

The doctor was silent for a moment, then murmured, "Time will tell." He shifted, appearing uncomfortable. He was obviously afraid of giving them false hope.

D'Artagnan glared at him. "You said Aramis wouldn't wake up, but he is lucid now! Now you say the infection is clearing. What more do you need to see to give him some hope? To give us some hope?!"

Deroux looked uneasy. "I am cautiously optimistic, son, but I cannot guarantee that he will recover."

_What you really mean is that you've never had a patient with so many different injuries, so you don't know what to think. My level of consciousness probably waxed and waned multiple times. If I had been in your place, I would have never left my patient's side...but my brothers would not let you stay with me. That had to have been strange for you...after all, until you met us, you'd never had a musketeer as a patient._

_You thought I was as good as dead, but you still took care of me. Although all I have shown you is anger, I am grateful._

"Would you be so kind as to check on Porthos as well?"

A relieved Deroux nodded. Aramis sensed that Porthos was not pleased to have the doctor's attention, but he did not want to run the risk of having an infection develop.

The doctor smiled as he changed the bandages. "It's healing nicely." He was pleased that he finally could finally give them some good news.

Deroux gave them some instructions. Aramis did not pay close attention, as he knew what the physician would say. Then the doctor left, insisting that they not hesitate to call him if he was needed.

Aramis closed his eyes, allowing himself to start to drift away in the warm embrace of Porthos' presence.

"None of that," his brother murmured, propping him up. "You need to eat. You heard the doctor! You and Athos are not going to compete to see who can be the skinniest musketeer."

Constance placed a bowl of stew next to the bed. Porthos fed him-or rather tried to. After a few spoons, Aramis had had enough. He knew it was too little sustenance to help his body recover, but could not force himself to eat more.

He glanced at Athos, then cursed under his breath when he saw a greenish shade on the lieutenant's face, betraying his battle with nausea.

The marksman took his brother's hand.

"Aramis?" Athos slowly opened his eyes when he felt his brother's gentle touch. "Are you real?" he murmured.

"I am real," the medic said, his voice soothing. "And I am not going anywhere."

Athos' blue eyes focused on him. Aramis' breath hitched when he saw the suffering that they contained.

"Brother, what's wrong?" the medic asked nervously.

Athos closed his eyes. He was clearly in pain, struggling with the difficult words which needed to be said.

"What can I do for you?" Aramis asked gently.

"I can't lose you!" the swordsman blurted out.

"You won't."

"Promise?"

Aramis sighed. Although he wanted desperately to help his brother, he could not make such a vow. However, he did feel much better. Despite Deroux's caution, he was quite convinced that the worst was behind him.

"I won't let this infection beat me," he finally replied.

"Despite everything I told you?"

"Yes. Despite what you may think, I don't have a death wish."

Athos nodded slowly.

"I can see that you're in pain," the medic stated.

"I feel better when I don't eat," the swordsman confessed.

"It will pass, brother…"

"Not if the poison caused permanent damage…"

"I have seen nothing that makes me think this is the case." Aramis spoke in his most authoritative medical tone, and he saw a glimmer of hope appear in Athos' eyes.

"You'll stay, won't you?"

Aramis wasn't exactly sure what his brother was asking, but he nodded, gently squeezing Athos' hand. Porthos curled up around the marksman, giving him the warmth of his body. The medic gestured to d'Artagnan and Constance to sit near them. He grasped their hands, then closed his eyes, sighing happily.

He was with his brothers and his sister, and he cherished their presence. He cared and was cared for. He felt exhausted, but grateful. The joy of their bond sang in his heart.

A prayer of overwhelming gratitude occupied his thoughts.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for the delay. I cannot promise next update will be sooner but I promise I won't abandon this story!  
> Special thanks fo my awesome Beta - Riversidewren!


	69. Chapter 69

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos' POV

Porthos

 

The bitter taste of despair woke him abruptly. Tears were slowly drying on his face. He lay motionless, not sure if he wanted to take any part in the world he had woken up to. He tried to curl up, but there was a weight across his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, summoning the dream.

 

In that dream, the weight on his chest moved slightly, mumbling something incoherently. In that dream, it nuzzled his neck, sighing happily. In that dream, a hand searched his face. It stroked his cheek, then stopped when it found the wet trail of his tears. 

 

The weight moved nervously.

“Porthos?”  The beloved voice was full of worry. The voice he would never hear again while awake. A sob tore the musketeer’s chest.

 

“Porthos? What’s wrong?!” There was a hint of panic in the voice. 

 

He had sworn never to say his brother’s name again. He had sworn viciously. But it was the dream… a dream which would break his heart. A dream which would finally destroy him.

 

“Mis?”  He whispered pleadingly.

 

“Yes, I am here, brother,” Aramis murmured softly.  “I am not going anywhere. Everything will be fine.” He moved a short distance away, but was careful not to break contact with Porthos. The dark skinned musketeer heard the sound of a candle being lit. 

 

In the glow of the flame, he saw his brother’s pale face. But this time, he did not have the deathly pallor of a corpse. He looked much better, although he was still far from his usual handsome self. The soft shine in his eyes was not from fever, though Porthos had impression that his skin had lost some of its coldness. The dark skinned musketeer could see the glow of life once again in his brother’s eyes. Obviously, Aramis had a long road of ahead of him, but Porthos now felt sure that his friend would recover--even if no doctor had yet declared him to be out of danger.

 

_ In my dream, Mis is on the mend. In my dream… God, let it never end! Let me stay in this dream forever. _

 

“Porthos?” the marksman asked softly, “Why were you crying? Did you have a nightmare?”

 

_ No. Reality is a nightmare. You only exist in my dream. _

 

He did not answer his brother’s question. Instead, he gently ruffled his hair, assuring him that everything was fine.

 

In his dream.

 

Aramis did not return to his position on Porthos’ chest. He remained in a half-sitting position. Then he slowly dragged himself towards the edge of the bed. 

 

“What are you doing, Mis?!” Porthos exclaimed, catching hold of his brother. Shocked by how thin Aramis felt under his hands, he did not even try to make the medic lie down. He merely supported him. 

 

“I need to clean up a bit. I feel sticky, and I don’t like it.”

 

“You really think you’ll be able to get up?!” Porthos was amazed. He was not sure how many hours had passed since the marksman had regained consciousness. However, he had the impression that it was the same day--or rather, that evening. Outside the window, it was dark. The moon was hidden under a layer of heavy clouds, turning the sky a dark grey, instead of the usual inky blue. It was bliss to be sitting by the heat of the fireplace in their room rather than being out in the cold.. Porthos remembered far too many cold and snowy nights--nights when his mind had tried to convince him he was warm as he huddled next to a fire that was too small to give any real respite from the cold.

 

Aramis tried to slip out of his arms, and that movement brought Porthos back to reality.

 

“Look, if you stay in bed, I’ll bring you some hot water in a tub. Deal?”

 

Even before his brother opened his mouth to reply, Porthos knew he had won. The gleam in Aramis’ eyes betrayed him. The big man smiled at him, then kissed his forehead.

 

“But you better be in bed when I get back. If you aren’t, I’ll pour the hot water out the window!”

 

“You wouldn’t!” the marksman cried.

 

Porthos glared at him. “Try me!” 

 

He wrapped a blanket around his friend, then left. When he was closing the door, he saw that Aramis had his pistol in his hand. He smiled at him reassuringly, then closed the door, only to feel a wave of panic hit him.

 

_ Will I stay in this dream instead of waking up ? Will I find him in the room alive? _

 

Should he move calmly, so as not to wake up? Or should he run in order to obtain the hot water, get back to Aramis quickly, and spend more time in this blissful dream?

 

He felt a bit lightheaded when he finally reached the kitchen. He realized numbly that it was first time since his collapse in the ruins near Grottes de Renard that he had walked such a distance. His weakness frustrated him. 

 

_ Now that Aramis is improving, I have to exercise in order to regain my strength. It is  ridiculous to have to struggle to complete just a short walk.  _

 

The kitchen welcome him with the delicious scent of fresh bread. He breathed deeply, and smiled. He saw Constance mixing something in a big bowl, and he paused a moment in order to take in the image. It spoke to him of home, but sadly could not actually remind him of his own home.  His mother had never had enough money to prepare a decent meal. However, this was the kind of home he had heard about in the stories she had told him. The smell of freshly baked bread meant happiness, just as the soft singing of woman tending to it did. 

 

Just as Constance placed the bowl on the kitchen table, a human shape appeared from out of a dark corner. Porthos was about to shout out a warning when he recognized d’Artagnan’s slender frame. His friend put his arms around Constance, placing a quick kiss on the back of her neck. She laughed, and turned around. Their lips met, and Porthos lowered his gaze in order to give them some privacy. They were clearly unaware of his presence.

 

He did not catch what d’Artagnan said next, but he heard Constance laugh. “Not now! I have to put the cake in the oven.” 

 

“She is right, you know. It is really a crime to disturb a lady while she is occupied with making a cake.” Porthos’ words startled his friends. They jumped apart, the boy reaching for his weapon.

 

“What are you doing here?!” Constance asked, a worried expression on her face.

 

“I need hot water. A lot of hot water.”

 

“But why? It’s not even dawn yet!”

 

“So why are you in the kitchen?”

 

“I’m preparing a good breakfast. It takes time to bake bread--and other things.” She added a mysterious smile to her last words.

 

He took a deep breath. “Mis wants a bath.” His heart beat wildly while he waited for their reaction. What if had he woken up to a reality in which Aramis was dead?!

 

But Constance merely smiled, and indicated the big pot standing on the kitchen stove.

 

“I’ll help you,” offered d’Artagnan. Porthos felt ashamed at how grateful he was.

 

Even together, it took them quite some time to carry the pot to their room. It was filled to the brim with hot water. Porthos held his breath as he opened the door. Only the sight of a pistol pointed at him caused him to slowly exhale.  Aramis was indeed conscious, and was watching him intently. The medic lowered his weapon, smiling at the sight of steam rising above the pot.

 

“How do you feel?” d’Artagnan asked, his voice betraying his joy.

 

_ To see those brown eyes lucid will be a reason to feel joy for just a little bit longer... _

 

_ God, please let this dream last forever… _

 

“Much better,” the marksman replied.  From the expression on his face, the answer seemed to be the truth. His eyes shone with delight as he watched Porthos poured the water into the tub. 

 

“It’s good to see you awake.” D’Artagnan embraced him, then ran for some buckets of cold water to adjust the temperature.

 

Finally, the bath was ready. Porthos cautiously checked its temperature.

 

“Porthos, I’m not a child!  You don’t have to treat me like one.”

 

“Someone has to take care of you, and it looks like that job has fallen to me.”

 

“If that’s so, I haven’t heard about it. I am afraid you’re mistaken.”

 

_ If I did not know you so well, I’d believe you were completely serious… _

 

“Come on, Mis,” Porthos murmured. He knelt on the bed in order to help his brother undress. He glanced at Athos, who seemed to still be asleep.

 

“Is it good for him to still be out?” he asked.

 

Aramis sighed.

“He needs rest, but we also need to take better care of him. He should feel a bit better by now.” Guilt was evident in the medic’s voice.

 

“Mis? Why do you think our care hasn’t been the best?”

 

“You were focused on me. That was not a good thing.”

 

“After the grim prognosis Deroux gave you?!” Porthos exclaimed. “What else did you expect?”  This provoked a mutter of annoyance from Athos. The swordsman tucked his blanket more tightly around his head, obviously trying to block out the noise of their conversation.

 

Porthos did not even realize that he had tightened his arms around Aramis, holding him closer to his chest.

 

“The water is getting cold,” the medic observed.

 

Porthos nodded, and started to adjust hs hold in order to carry his brother, but Aramis shook his head slightly.

 

“No. I want to stand up.”

 

“It’s too soon!”

 

“Let me try.”

 

Porthos sighed. “If I were the one who was wounded, would you let me try?”

 

“Yes. Because if I said no, you’d probably do it anyway. And then I wouldn't be there to catch you.”

 

Porthos had to admit that the medic’s argument made sense. The big man watched Aramis as he sat on the edge of the bed, then helped him to stand up. The Spaniard leaned against his brother for a long moment, then straightened up a bit. He was very pale, but his eyes shone with contentement. He took one cautious step, then a second. 

 

Porthos was ready to catch him if necessary, but there was no such need. The joy in his heart was overshadowed by one thought -  _ it’s only a dream. A beautiful dream. _

 

Finally he helped Mis sit in the hot water. He could not hold back a smile when his friend sighed happily. 

 

“Would you like me to wash your hair?” he asked “Or will it cause a problem with the wound?” 

 

Helping his brother with such mundane tasks was completely different from dripping drops of a draught into his mouth...drops which may or may not save his life.

 

“I’d love to have my hair washed! But afterwards, you’ll have to rinse the wound with wine.” Aramis’ voice sounded a bit sleepy.

 

Porthos obeyed. Mis leaning into his hands made him nearly cry with joy. His brother’s trust in him was so precious!

 

Afterwards, he was ready to carry him back to the bed, but the stubborn marksman insisted on to walking. It was only then, as Porthos guided him to sit down, that he realized d’Artagnan had changed the sheets. He smiled as he thought of the Gascon. The young man had left, promising to return soon with food. Porthos tended Aramis’ injuries, carefully following the marksman’s instructions. When he was finished, he eyed the tub. It seemed wasteful not to use the hot water.

 

“Mis? Do you think it would be a good idea to offer Athos a bath?”

 

“That doesn't sound too bad,” grumbled the swordsman. “But please, less cuddling on the way.”

 

Porthos grinned. “Fine. No kisses on the forehead.”

 

Athos glared at him.

 

Porthos sighed. Helping Aramis was an easy task. The Spaniard, unless he was feeling a surge of independence, usually leaned into his touch, gratefully accepting his care. With Athos, it was always more complicated. First of all, the swordsman seemed to find it humiliating to accept help. He tended to treat the person assisting him as a tormentor rather than a friend. Secondly, allowing someone to touch him seemed repugnant to the former comte. At best, Porthos would have to deal with a hostile silence. 

 

As predicted, Athos seemed to be tormented by any sort of help. However, he accepted it without a word. Unlike Aramis, he was not able to stand on his own. Porthos was alarmed by his friend’s weakness. He cast a quick glance at the medic in order to seek advice, but saw that he was sound asleep. He wanted to rush to his side to check and see if he was still breathing, but through a thick blanket, it was impossible to tell. However, his hands were full with the swordsman. Athos was limp, his head lolling on his chest.

 

“Athos?” he whispered in alarm.

 

The injured man opened one eye, and looked skeptically at Porthos.

 

“How do you feel?” he asked, his voice full of concern.

 

“Tired,” murmured Athos. He positioned his head more comfortably on Porthos’ chest, and seemed to fall asleep.

 

“Aramis!” Porthos hissed. To his relief, the marksman woke up immediately, his hand searching for his weapon.

 

“No, Mis! Forget your pistol! I need your medical expertise. But don’t get up!”

 

“So what do you want me to do?” the medic asked, his expression showing his confused. He slowly untangled himself from his blanket.

 

Porthos was at a loss. He had not expected such a complete lack of cooperation from Athos. The swordsman was barely conscious.

 

“Splash some cold water on his face!” Aramis ordered. 

 

Porthos obeyed. In response, Athos tried to hit him.

 

“Open your eyes!” the dark skinned musketeer ordered.

 

“It’s still you?” Athos mumbled.

 

“Yes. And if you don’t want to drown in this tub, I suggest you stay awake--and refrain from beating me.”

 

“And what if I want to drown?” Athos asked.

 

Aramis cut in. “I don’t think this is quite your style. You’d rather drown in wine.”

 

Athos raised an eyebrow, but did not answer. Finally, Porthos was ready to dry off his brother and get him into some clean clothes. Athos allowed all of his ministrations without a word of protest. It was disturbing. 

 

“What now?” Porthos asked. 

 

“I suggest you hurry up and take a bath,” Aramis said. “Constance will be here soon. He started to examine Athos. His touch elicited a low growl of protest from the swordsman. 

 

Porthos quickly washed, then tidied up the room. As he worked, he felt Aramis’ eyes on him. He glanced at him quizzically. The marksman gave him a quick smile, but Porthos sensed that something was not right. It was a tense smile, and clearly was not meant to reach his eyes.

 

“Mis?” Porthos was at his friend’s side at an instant. “What’s wrong with you?” He cupped his brother’s face,cursing under his breath when he realized that his hand was shaking. 

 

“Calm down. I’m fine.” Aramis ran his fingers through Porthos’ hair, and the big man relaxed a bit under his touch. 

 

_ I need so much to feel him, and know that his is alive. I’ve become so used to his care. It’s so selfish, but I need his touch. How I can demand it from an injured man?  _

 

“Porthos?” Aramis murmured.

 

His brother’s heart warmed at the note of concern in the medic’s voice, and he immediately felt guilty.

 

“What can I do for you?” he asked, leaning into his touch.

 

“If I ask you to change your hairstyle, will you?”

 

“Nah, Mis. You tried that once, then finally decided it was hopeless.”

 

“In that case, I’ll need the draught sitting by the fireplace-the one on the left.”

 

“Do you feel worse?” Porthos hated to the sound of his voice at that moment. It was sounded so small..so terrified.

 

“No. First of all, it’s not for me--and secondly, I’ve told you many times that herbs are are not just useful in fighting the worst infections. They also help speed up recovery.”

 

Porthos reluctantly separated from his brother, and handed him the requested cup. 

 

“So, which one should I give you?”

 

“The other one. But after breakfast.”

 

Porthos nodded. “I’ll do it.”

 

“Athos…” Aramis gently rubbed the swordsman’s cheek. Time for your breakfast!” He said cheerily.

 

“Go away!”

 

“I know you’re not a morning person, but this time, I must insist that you eat--and I will wake you up as often as possible to make you do so. You’re only harming yourself by continuing to fast.”

 

“Says who? A person who stopped fasting during Lent only after he fainted during a guard duty?”

 

“But I never fasted again! And as I recall, you’ve never exactly been a religious person, Athos. What’s more, it’s almost time for Carnival, not Lent!”

 

Athos grumbled under his breath, then said, “If I drink it, you stop talking and let me sleep?”

 

“For a while--at least until Constance arrives with breakfast.”

 

The swordsman accepted the draught with a sigh, then seemed to fall fast asleep. 

 

Porthos returned to his place next to Aramis, and the marksman leaned against him.

 

“We can catch a bit of sleep before they come,” he murmured, obviously tired. 

 

Porthos shook his head slightly. 

 

“But what if the dream ends?” he blurted out. He looked at Aramis uncertainly. The marksman patted the bed, indicating that they should lie down. As they did so, he never broke contact with Porthos. Once they were in position, he wrapped the blankets around them. Then he took his brother’s hand, and placed it over his steadily beating heart.

 

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” Aramis promised, his other hand gently stroking Porthos’ hair. “Sleep, brother. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

_ God let it last…  _

 

Porthos relaxed under his brother’s touch. The beat of his heart was lulling him to sleep. Mis seemed to be warmer than before. He did not exactly have the temperature of a healthy man, but he was getting closer to it.

 

“You’re not so cold now,” Porthos observed.

“Mhm,” Aramis hummed. “That’s because I’m getting better.” There was a smile in his voice. He nuzzled his face in the crook of Porthos’ neck.

 

“You’re thinking too loud,” he murmured softly. “Sleep.” 

 

When from Aramis’ breathing he could be sure his brother was asleep, Porthos whispered, “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry do the delay. I hope you'll enjoy it!


	70. Chapter 70

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d'Artagnan's POV

d’Artagnan

 

Awareness slowly came back to him. The world had stopped, the moment consisting only of her touch, her kisses, her scent. The Gascon remembered a passionate kiss in the kitchen--then there had only been his desire, his need.

 

“Constance…”  

He whispered into her neck, too afraid to look at her face... to meet her eyes.

 

“Yes?” she murmured, her fingers gently stroking his back. “I’ve missed it… I’ve missed you so much!”

 

“I…”

He did not know what to say. He was drunk with her presence.  He had not expected that he would succumb so easily to his lust. There had been a time when her touch had made him feel uneasy. He had even had tried to avoid her kisses. And then… he had just lost himself in her. 

 

“D’Artagnan, if I burn the cakes, I am afraid your friends won’t be very happy with me.”  Constance laughed, and jumped off the table. She smoothed her dress, her fingers getting caught in a tear in the material. She shook her head and giggled.

 

“What?” he grumbled.

 

“My wonderful impatient lover.”

 

When he heard her whisper those words, desire stirred in his body. Her eyes shone as she met his gaze. She kissed him hastily, then went to the door and locked it.

 

“What are you…?” 

 

She gave him a flirtatious smile. “I don’t like spectators, so I’ve just made sure we won’t have any.”

 

They were in a large storage area. There was a huge wooden table in the center of the room.  The walls were lined with shelves that were filled with pots and pans of varying sizes. Bunches of herbs hung from the ceiling.

 

They made love on the table, their passion for one another making them oblivious to the austere surroundings. 

 

D’Artagnan finished dressing, then sighed. Joy and shame were engaged in a battle for his soul, and the struggle was overwhelming him.

 

Constance eyed him with worry. “Did I do something wrong?”

 

“No… I just cannot believe that...I’ve forgotten about everything…”

 

Constance flushed, her delicate skin glowing with happiness. “I hope that you always forget about everything when you are… so… close to me.”  He made no response, content to merely drink in her image. 

 

A moment later, she left the room in order to check on the cakes. The smell from the kitchen made him realize how hungry he was.

 

She glanced at him. “If you like, you can put the food on a tray and take it in to them. I’ll be along with the sweet cakes in just a few minutes.”

 

He nodded. His instinct was to wait for his sweetheart, but he guessed that Constance wanted a moment to herself. So he loaded the tray with food, then left, planting a kiss on her hair as he passed. 

 

Opening the door without letting go of the tray required a bit of acrobatics. Luckily, he managed it without spilling more than a few drops of milk. 

 

He entered the musketeers’ room, smiling when he saw Aramis looking at him. Seeing the muzzle of a pistol aimed at him did not diminish the joy he felt when he saw that his brother’s eyes were lucid.

 

“I have breakfast,” he announced. 

 

Porthos mumbled something, and started to untangle himself from Aramis. It did not look as if the other man was making much of an effort to help.

 

The big man gave his brother a reproving look. “Mis, you need to eat and… I need to got some of that fresh bread! It smells incredible. Are you trying to kill me by keeping me from eating?!”

 

Aramis sighed heavily, then slid down to lie on the bed. Porthos glanced at him uncertainly, then propped him up with some pillows.

 

“He treats me like a rag doll!” the marksman grumbled. However, he took the plate that d’Artagnan offered him. The boy watched him carefully for a few moments, but the injured man did not need any coaxing to begin to eat.

 

The Gascon looked at Athos, who was clearly pretending to be asleep. Then he searched Aramis’ gaze. The medic nodded. The boy had hoped that the medic would offer some assistance, but it was apparent that Aramis prefered to be an observer rather than a participant.

 

_ He probably still feels bad. _

 

The thought was distressing, but Aramis’ look sent a clear message-the Gascon needed to act.

 

D’Artagnan gently touched his mentor’s arm. “Athos, you really should eat something.” In response, the man buried his face further in the pillow.

 

The boy tried again. “Athos, you need to eat if you want to recover.”

 

The swordsman curled up in a ball and hid under the blanket. His body language was clear. He wanted to be left alone

 

D’Artagnan was at a loss. He needed to persuade Athos to eat, even though he knew it would hardly be a pleasant experience for the man. He looked at Aramis, seeking  his guidance. The marksman sighed heavily. However, before he managed to do anything, Constance arrived. The smell of freshly baked cake made d’Artagnan’s mouth water. He licked his lips nervously.

 

The young woman placed the tray out of their reach, and went over to Athos. She pulled the blanket off him.

 

“I hope you're planning to eat,” she said sternly, her voice making It clear that anything other than an affirmative answer was not an option. She placed a cup of broth in his hand.

 

Athos sat up, and obediently drank a little bit of broth. D’Artagnan saw that there was still soup in the cup when the swordsman handed it back to Constance.

 

The young woman, clearly unsure what to do, looked to Aramis for guidance. The medic nodded sadly, indicating for her to leave Athos alone. However,  Aramis continued to watch the swordsman like a hawk, maintaining the view from his vantage point while leaning against Porthos. By observing the the medic’s gaze closely, the Gascon knew after five minutes had passed that Athos had started to feel poorly again. So when he turned to look at his mentor, it did not surprise him to see Athos lying curled up on his side, his face buried in the pillow once again.

 

“Athos?” D’Artagnan hesitantly touched his arm.   
  


“Leave me alone!” the swordsman growled.

 

“Let him be,” Aramis murmured. 

 

D’Artagnan withdrew a bit. The feeling of helplessness was overwhelming. He could only watch as his friend fought to keep three or four sips of broth down. How could Athos be expected to recover if he continue to struggle like this?! 

 

_ What if he dies of starvation? Here. With plenty of food!  _

 

The bitter irony brought d’Artagnan close to tears.

 

Aramis gently touched his hand. “You must have hope.”

 

Athos slowly changed his position to a more comfortable one. He scowled at Aramis.

“Well, are you happy?”

 

“Why should I be?” Aramis appeared confused.

 

Athos did not grace him with an answer. He closed his eyes, sending him a message that the conversation was over. 

 

After a hasty knock, Treville entered. He motioned to his men to remain sitting.

 

“I want all of you to leave first thing in the morning. It’s not safe here. I have to return to Paris, and I do not wish for you to remain here by yourselves. You will ride to the estate the King has designated for your recovery. Philippe and Noiret will accompany you on the journey, but they cannot stay once you have reached your destination. Aramis, how long will it be before you are fit for duty?”

 

The marksman thought for a moment.

“I recommend that Porthos and d’Artagnan be put on light duty after a day or two of rest.  I think I should be ready to in a week.”

 

The Captain glared at him. “I believe you meant to say three weeks.”

 

Aramis sighed. “Sir, with all due respect, I honestly think that a week will be enough.”

 

Treville’s eyes narrowed for a moment, and then his expression relaxed. “Fine, by that time, you will be ready to walk in the garden and help in the kitchen.” A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “Now, what about Athos?”

 

Aramis considered the question.  “I must admit that I am really not sure how much time he will need.. I am far from an expert as far as poison is concerned. There is much I have to learn in that area.”

 

“Well, I think we can agree that testing toxic compounds on yourself is not the best approach to enhancing your knowledge.” Treville said dryly. Aramis appeared about to respond, but Treville silenced him with a gesture.

 

“You should reach your destination by nightfall. Unfortunately, you will have to ride, as the roads are too muddy for a wagon. Constance, do you plan to go with them?”

 

The redhead glared at the Musketeers’ leader. “Obviously! Where else would I go?” D’Artagnan smiled when he saw the accusing look that she gave the Captain.

 

“Good.” Treville nodded approvingly.

 

“What about Florentine and Marc?” d’Artagnan asked, curious about their fate.

 

“She will be taken to Paris to stand trial. As far as Marc… I plan to allow him and his family to leave. Is there any objection?” He waited for a moment.

 

“No,” said Aramis decisively. The other musketeers shook their heads. 

 

“Good,” he murmured. “Be ready at dawn.” With that, he left them.

 

“Is Athos capable of riding?!” D’Artagnan appeared to be astonished by the Captain’s announcement.

 

“He’ll have to be,”  Aramis replied grimly.

 

“He knows we’ll be attacked if we stay here any longer,” Athos muttered.

 

Aramis glanced at him. “How do you feel?”

 

“Better.” Athos laid down once again, wrapping the blanket around his body. He shot a dark look at the medic. “But before you ask, no, I’m not eating any more right now.”

 

Aramis stared back at him in exasperation, his voice betraying his concern, “Athos, you cannot keep on going like this!”

 

Athos turned his face to the wall, and remained silent. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for rare updates. Thank you so much for still reading this story. Your reviews make my day!  
> Enjoy!
> 
> My eternal gratitude to my Beta - Riversidewren!


	71. Chapter 71

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos' POV

Athos

 

He was useless. The day was long since gone. Porthos and d’Artagnan had already prepared everything needed for their early departure. Constance had made sure they had been given decent meals during the day, and had probably took care of any supplies they would need for the upcoming journey.

 

He watched his friends eating supper, and envied the relish with which they ate their food. Even if Aramis could not eat much, he obviously enjoyed the delicacies Constance had prepared for them. The marksman seemed to be in high spirits. It was as if his recent brush with death had strengthened his will to live. However, Athos often saw the shadows in his friend’s dark eyes, which served to remind him that he still had a long road ahead to achieve a real recovery.

 

_ Aramis is healing. I, on the other hand… _

 

He placed his hand on his stomach, which was cramping beneath the waterskin filled with hot water that Aramis had placed there. The waterskin was now only lukewarm, but Athos hoped that it still offer him some relief. Every time he tried to eat even a bit of food, it ended the same way - with abdominal pain and overwhelming nausea. At least he was no longer actively vomiting. He hoped that was a good sign. 

 

He closed his eyes, trying to summon sleep, but his efforts were in vain. He heard a small sound of distress, and turned in the direction of Porthos.. The big man must have tightened his grip on Aramis, for the marksman was whimpered softly. He started to whisper reassurances to his brother, his fingers combing through Porthos’ hair. After a few moments, the dark-skinned musketeer finally calmed down.

 

_ He also needs time to heal. I suppose the True Musketeers have won this battle. We are injured and broken. But are we irrevocably broken? Should I resign? And if so, then what? Do I drown myself in wine? Would I even be able to keep wine down at this point?? _

 

He must have fallen asleep, as he was woken up sometime later by d’Artagnan. The room was bright with candles. The Gascon helped him to dress, then put a cup of hot broth in his hands. The smell turned his stomach. 

 

“Drink!” Aramis ordered sternly. “You need something hot.”

 

_ I know he’s a medic, but he should not treat me like a child! _

Athos turned his head, and gave his friend a frosty stare. “What about you?”

 

He saw Aramis wince at his words.

.

Athos felt a rush of guilt. Ever since his ordeal, the marksman had been careful to avoid broth.  It was really quite odd. Previously, soup had been one of his favorite meals, especially after a cold day on duty. Athos turned that fact over in his sleepy mind. Suddenly, realization dawned on him.

 

He gasped, and felt a desperate urge to flee the room. His eyes focused on Aramis, and he saw the listless eyes of a man whose body was alive only because it did not realize that his soul was already gone.

 

“I--already ate!” The medic’s hasty answer finally reached Athos, and the image in his mind vanished. The swordsman could not bear to look at his brother any longer, so he glanced at d’Artagnan. With a slight nod, the Gascon confirmed the marksman’s words. 

 

Athos reluctantly took a sip of the thick liquid. There were many herbs in it, and Athos guessed that Aramis had given Constance detailed instructions on how to prepare it. He tried to banish his earlier thoughts about the marksman, but found he couldn’t.

 

After a few sips, he lost his appetite, so he handed the cup to d’Artagnan. The boy polished off the rest of it, draining the last few drops from the cup. 

 

_ Unaware that he was the cause…  _

_ Unaware that I possess the sort of knowledge which can destroy someone instantly. And some evening, when I am drunk, I may end up disclosing it. _

 

Athos closed his eyes, waiting while his friends made ready to depart. Slow, deep breaths finally started to ease the nausea. However, even a moment of distraction seemed to act as an invitation for his stomach to rebel once again.

 

“Athos?” Treville’s voice took him by surprise. He opened his eyes, cursing himself for not having realized that his commander had entered the room.

 

“How do you feel?” the Captain asked.

 

“Fine,” Athos muttered.

 

“Are you ready for the journey?”

 

“I suppose I have no choice.” 

 

He hated feeling so weak. He would be grateful for an opportunity to catch up on sleep, but at the same time, he needed to get out of the room for a time. He needed a chance to breathe fresh air. 

 

“I wish you did not have to leave…that you had some more time to recover...”

 

“I understand, Captain. I’ll be fine.”

 

“You’ll be riding with Porthos, and Aramis will ride with d’Artagnan.” Treville narrowed his eyes.  “And before you say anything, this is non-negotiable.” 

 

Athos glanced at Porthos. The big man tried to conceal his disappointment, but it was obvious that he was not happy with their commander’s decision. Aramis and d’Artagnan, however, seemed to accept it. 

 

Porthos helped him to the stable, where their horses were already ready. Philippe and Noiret were already waiting, and greeted them warmly. 

 

Athos should have been grateful to have Porthos and Treville’s assistance in mounting the horse, but he only felt humiliated. He hated being so dependent. To make matters worse, he found it difficult to sit straight. He fought the urge to frantically clutch the horse’s mane. Finally, Porthos swung into place behind him, and they rode out. 

 

Athos breathed in the brisk, cold air of the hours before dawn. The sky was slightly brighter to the east, with subtle orange and red colours added to the grey-blue of the wintery night. The wind must have scattered the cloud cover.

 

They rode on in silence. Their well-rested horses frisked at the bit, ready to race if given the chance.  However, given the state he was in, Athos knew he could not tolerate galloping on horseback. He so missed the feeling of freedom. Every time he raced across the countryside on his horse, he allowed himself to believe that he was finally leaving his demons behind. Now, the party only allowed themselves an occasional canter. All because of him. 

 

He managed to stay awake until the first rays of the sun started to show through the light cover of clouds. After that, he began to feel more and more tired. At some point, he had obviously fallen asleep, as he awoke to find that they had stopped in order to rest the horses and have a have a quick bite to eat.

 

His eyes followed the activity around their makeshift camp. Porthos hovered near Aramis, who sat leaning against a fallen tree. His legs were stretched out in front of him, just as Athos’ were.

 

Constance came over, and gave him a reproving look. “You need to eat.” She was dressed in men’s clothes, her red hair plaited into a tight braid. It reminded him of how lovely his Anne had once looked in her riding clothes. He lowered his eyes, the memory as painful as ever.

 

He took the cup from her hands. The broth was still warm. 

 

_ It probably is delicious. But for me, it’s just a tasteless, thick liquid that only makes the nausea start all over again.  _

_ I am useless. _

 

After a few sips, he passed the cup back to her, unable to drink any more. 

 

D’Artagnan came over to him.  He was finishing off some dried meat and a hunk of cheese. “How do you feel?” 

 

“I’ve been better. Are we ready to continue?”

 

The boy quickly swallowed his last bite.

“In a bit. The horses need a few more minutes of rest.”

 

In less than an hour, they were off. The path narrowed as it wound deeper into the forest. The leafless branches stood out against the blue sky, as stark as the claws of a predator. They swayed in time with the wind, which could not be felt on the forest floor.

 

Athos allowed his mind to be wander as he stared at the trees above them, imagining fantastic monsters battling in the sky. It made the ride more bearable for a time, as it helped him to focus on something else than the waves of nausea and abdominal pain. 

 

It was a grave mistake. When it came, the cry of “Ambush!” was a complete shock.

 

“Go!” Philippe yelled. 

 

Athos saw d’Artagnan jump off his horse and plunge into the middle of the bandits. Porthos, hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly spurred their horse into a gallop. They were leaving the battle! They were leaving their brothers in arms behind.

 

They reached the top of a small hill. Porthos turned his horse, and swore violently. Athos was tempted to use the same words when he saw that Aramis had not followed them.

 

The marksman had ridden out of the main fight, then stopped, a pistol in each hand. Nuit was even better trained than Orage. She was not disturbed by the dropped reins, and continued to follow her rider’s commands.

 

_ Her rider’s stupid, reckless commands… _

 

Porthos took in a deep breath as his body tensed. Athos sensed that the big man’s mind was filled with fear for his injured brother.

 

_ He will hate me if Aramis doesn’t come out of this unscathed.  _

_ I will hate myself…. _

 

“We’re joining them!” he suddenly blurted out.

 

Porthos stared at him. “What are you talking about? You’re in no condition to fight! As much as I want to be by Mis’ side, I refuse to put you in danger!”  His voice wavered as he spoke, and he sounded close to tears.

 

Aramis swayed in the saddle once more, and Athos made up his mind. 

 

“Leave me here!”, he ordered, sliding off the horse. Porthos tried to stop him, but Athos was too quick.  It was a struggle to remain upright, but he knew he could do it for his brothers.

 

“Go!” he yelled. The mere act of screaming made him more lightheaded.

 

Fortunately, Porthos was already gone, rushing towards their enemies with a war cry on his lips. 

 

Athos took a few wobbly steps, and was able to get to an area which offered him a bit of cover. Once he reached a large oak tree, his legs gave way, and he slid to his knees. He leaned his forehead against the rough oak bark, his whole body trembling.

 

All he could do was listen to the fight. To the clash of metal and the screams of the wounded. To the gunshots. 

 

_ I should have died. I am nothing but a burden. I tried to keep Porthos away from his injured brother. It was a mistake for us to ever ride together. I should have stayed at Fontainebleau. If I am killed, no one will regret my death. Now I am the danger. The weakness… _

 

“Athos?” 

 

He felt a warm touch on his shoulder. 

 

“Athos? Are you with me?” There was fear in d’Artagnan’s voice.

 

He did not lift his head.  _ What if Aramis had been killed? _

 

He did not have the strength to face Porthos’ anger and despair.

 

“Athos? Are you hurt?” D’Artagnan sounded frantic now.

 

“He is dead, isn’t he?”

 

“Who? We are all safe--no one has been killed or injured. At least, not as of yet. I’m not entirely sure that Porthos doesn’t plan to kill Aramis because of the stunt he pulled. Athos, what’s wrong with you?”

 

This time, he could not say “I’m fine.”

Nothing could be fine after he had left his friends to fight without him. 

 

“Athos?”

 

“Leave me be!” he growled.

 

“That will be a bit difficult, as we need to get going,” d’Artagnan replied.

 

“Well then, stop asking stupid questions and help me up!” he snapped.

 

The Gascon sighed in exasperation, then extended his hand. Athos had planned to try to walk with a minimum of support. However, once again, his body a different idea. Suddenly, darkness claimed his vision. He dimly heard d’Artagnan calling frantically for help, but the sound soon receded into the distance. Then he was falling into the dark abyss of oblivion.

 

_ Green eyes. Her eyes. Her smile. _

_ “What are you doing here?!” he asked hoarsely. _

 

_ “I’m watching you. You’ll never be free from me. Even in death.” _

 

_ “I don’t think so,” he stated calmly. _

 

_ “You cannot run away, Olivier. You still love me. I can see it in your eyes. You know, despite all that training you received, I always was able to read your thoughts.” _

 

_ “Leave me!” _

 

_ “Do you really want to face it alone? To be alone in your last moments?” _

 

_ “Everyone is alone while dying,” he stated. That was the truth that his father had told him so many years ago. _

 

_ Her cold fingers touched his lips. Without thinking, he kissed them. _

 

_ She smiled sadly. _

_ “Why did you have to destroy everything? Destroy us? Destroy yourself?” _

 

_ “You killed Thomas!” _

 

_ “You know why I did it.  Just as you destroyed us… you will destroy them, your brothers. You know I speak the truth, but you don’t have the strength to leave them… to let them live.” _

 

_ She was right. He should abandon them. _

 

“Open your eyes, Athos!” It was not a woman’s voice. 

 

A hand lifted up his head, and he felt a cup pressed to his lips. A herbal liquid entered his mouth. Resistance would only cause him to choke painfully on that awful tea. So he drank it obediently.

. 

“Athos, this is not the time for a nap,” d’Artagnan repeated.

 

The swordsman finally opened his eyes, and looked around him in shock.

 

“We...were on on our way to the horses,” he said hoarsely. 

He was lying on a bed. Lighted candles stood on the table and the nightstand. The ceiling was shrouded in darkness, and he could just make out elaborately painted scenes.

“What the hell happened?!” 

 

“We arrived at the estate after dusk,” d’Artagnan replied calmly.

 

“Do you mean to say that I was unconscious for half the day?!”

 

The boy looked guilty. “You weren’t completely unconscious, but you definitely weren’t aware of what was going on. We decided not to stop in the forest.”

 

“Good. What about the others?”

 

“They are sleeping. Philippe and Noiret are leaving in the morning. How do you feel?”

 

“I don’t know,” Athos replied, caught off guard. 

 

“I have some hot broth for you. And just so you know, I don’t take no for an answer.”

 

“You find it funny, don’t you?”

 

The Gascon looked confused. “What do you mean?” 

 

“Treating me like a child.”

 

The boy shrugged, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “I’m not sure I’d be very good at that. I didn’t have any younger brothers or sisters.”

 

“I am so weak…”

 

“Each time I am recovering from an illness or a wound, you tell me that the weakness will pass, but you insist on feeding me until I am strong enough to do it myself. Athos, I want nothing more than for you to feel better--but it is not because I am sick of taking care of you.”

 

Athos’ eyes met his. “You should be. I do not deserve your care.”

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay. I hope you'll enjoy it. The next chapter will be post sooner :)


	72. Chapter 72

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis' POV

Aramis

 

The adrenaline surge of battle sang in his veins. Nuit responded to even the most subtle shift of his weight in the saddle, doing exactly what he required of her. D’Artagnan had done a superb job of training her. 

 

However, the situation was not looking so bright. Aramis had just taken his last shot. His aim could have been better. However, even though his opponent had not been fatally wounded, he seemed to have been incapacitated. The marksman needed to reload his weapon. He knew the smartest thing at this point would be to retreat from the fight, as he was well aware that he was too weak to hold his own in a swordfight. 

 

Unfortunately, retreat was not an option. He urged Nuit into a wild swerve, and somehow miraculously remained on her back. The enemy was far too close for his liking. He saw two attackers lunging at him. He threw his dagger at one of them, but due to his lack of strength, the blade did not penetrate very far into the man’s chest. The bandit winced, and pulled out Aramis’ dagger. A moment later, the medic saw a rapier aimed at his thigh. Before Aramis could react in order to avoid the blade, the bandit stumbled. He fell on his knees, directly under the hooves of Porthos’ horse. Vent trampled the helpless man, and Porthos slashed the other bandit. He whirled, bringing down his pommel on a third man who had rushed to help his comrades. The terrain around them was now clear of the enemy.

 

The fight seemed to be over. 

 

Porthos caught Nuit’s reins. The mare nervously shook her head.

 

Porthos was furious, his dark eyes blazing with anger. 

 

Aramis winced involuntarily.

 

He could feel rage radiating from Porthos, and decided that silence filled with fury was much worse than shouted curses. The big man was staring directly at Aramis, his expression full of disgust and outrage. A challenge was seemed to be implicit in his brother’s posture. 

 

Without saying a word, Porthos started to lead Aramis’ horse away. The marksman shivered as they moved away from the site of the battle. He hoped that his friend would forgive him… eventually. Normally, all he would need to do would be to remain quiet and docile for a few hours, then maybe apologize. Usually, everything would then quickly return to normal. But now? He realized uneasily that he could not be so sure that Porthos would forgive him for his recklessness. 

 

“How is Athos?” he asked softly.

 

“How should I know?” Porthos growled, deliberately avoiding eye contact. “I had to leave him!”

 

Aramis’ shoulders slumped. Porthos immediately turned his horse and drew up alongside Nuit. His hand shot out and grabbed Aramis’ face. 

 

Panic kicked in with the unexpected contact. The marksman began to struggle, desperate to get free.  For a moment, he forgot he was on horseback. Awareness rushed back when felt himself falling. He frantically tried to regain his balance. Now the hand was no longer on his face. It had seized his arm, and seemed to be trying to hold him in place. Fear flooded his body, and he found himself unable to separate the present from the images of the past that were rushing into his brain. He was paralyzed, unsure whether he should remain in the saddle, or fight to escape.

 

He heard a voice calling to him from a distance. “Damn it, Aramis!”

 

With a desperate effort, he jerked free from the hand trying to restrain him, and felt himself falling.  He landed hard on his back. The wind was knocked out of him, and he lay stunned. 

 

Someone shook him. A  whimper escaped his lips, despite his effort to remain silent. His foggy brain was trying to process the contradictory information he was getting from his senses. The air was thick with the smell of blood and powder. He caught fragments of conversation, the voices blending into a jumble of meaningless noise. Even though his eyes were still squeezed shut, images were exploding in his brain.

 

Someone slapped his face. The sensation was quite painful, but also sobering. This time, he could make out the words that followed.

 

“Aramis?! Open your eyes! I beg you!”  

 

He exhaled slowly, trying to regain his composure. His body was still filled with panic, and his he struggled to breathe normally instead of gasping in fear.

 

He opened his eyes. He was confused. Unsure.

 

Porthos was kneeling near him, his big hands ghosting over his friend’s body as he searched it for signs of injuries.

 

“Mis? Are you with me?”

 

Aramis gave him a sluggish nod, avoiding his friend’s eyes. 

 

He realized that Constance was hovering near them. Her eyes were full of worry, and she held a blade in her hand. D’Artagnan was nowhere to be seen, and that made him uneasy.

 

Was the boy injured?

 

“Are you hurt?” Porthos asked, his voice urgent.

“Don’t think so,” the marksman muttered, although he was far from certain. He gingerly started to move his limbs. Porthos pulled him into a sitting position, then hauled him onto his feet. The medic leaned against his brother, struggling against the last shadows of his fear.

 

_ Still no d’Artagnan! _

 

“Where’s d’Artagnan?!” Aramis blurted out. 

  
“He’s gone to check on Athos.”

 

That was good. Their leader would not be alone.

 

“Mis, I am so sorry!  I never meant to frighten you... mostly because I know all too well it won’t keep you from taking risks. You’ll be always a reckless idiot!  Believe me, if I thought I could prevent it by scaring you, I’d do it every day!” Porthos was mumbling, but the medic could easily discern his anger. His fear. His guilt. 

 

Dark memories swirled around him, still all too palpable. However, he knew his brother needed him, and this knowledge gave him the strength he so desperately needed. 

 

“Porthos?” he asked softly.

 

“Yes, my reckless idiot?”

 

“Yours?” Aramis managed to sound confused.

 

“Yes, mine. Otherwise, I’d have to beat your idiotic behavior out of you. Unfortunately, I am afraid that the only way to permanently eradicate such behavior would be to remove your brain.”

 

The marksman leaned his forehead against Porthos’ arm.

 

“Are you planning to pass out?” the big man inquired. The lightness in his voice was belied by the intensity with which his hands gripped his friend. 

 

“No. We should go. We need to check on Athos.” Aramis straightened up, and looked around at his companions.

 

“Anyone injured?”  he asked. It appeared that no one was seriously wounded. Constance and Porthos stood close to him, and appeared relatively unscathed. Philippe and Noiret had just finished tying up the prisoners.

 

“What are we going to do with them?” Philippe asked.

 

Aramis shrugged. “Well, we can’t take them with us.”

 

He did not have to examine them to know that both men were wounded, and that no one had taken care of their injuries. He glanced at the others. As Athos was currently out of commission, he was not sure exactly who was in the charge of their group. After a moment, he came to a decision.

 

“Leave them,”  the marksman ordered. “If they haven’t bled out by the time we return, we’ll take them then.”

 

One of the prisoners, a fair-haired man who appeared to be close to thirty, looked at them, his grey eyes wide with alarm. “You can’t do that!” he protested.

 

It was tempting to toy a little longer with the captives. There was still nervous energy roiling in him. He felt the urge to intimidate them in order to gain information. To play. However, he was too worried about Athos to become involved in an interrogation now...and he knew that without the drive to engage completely in the task, his strength would fade quickly.

 

“So where is Athos at the moment?” he asked Porthos.

 

“There.” Porthos nodded towards a hill that was close by. “D’Artagnan has taken Nuit, so you’ll ride with me.” The big man had apparently decided not to let him stray out of his grip. To be honest, the marksman was becoming less and less sure of his ability to stay on his feet under his own power, so he accepted Porthos’ help without protest.

 

They had just reached their comrades when they heard d’Artagnan cry out in desperation. The boy had apparently helped Athos to his feet, only to have him pass out. He was easing the unconscious swordsman to the ground.  Porthos tossed the reins to Aramis, and rushed to help him. 

 

“All I did was help him to stand up!  He stood for a moment, then he just slumped over!” the boy cried. His pleading eyes sought Aramis’ gaze. The medic clumsily slid off the horse. He did not even try to regain his balance, and came to rest on his knees near his friends.

“Athos?” He touched his comrade’s forehead. His fever was not much higher than it had been in the morning. There was no response.

 

He tried again, gently stroking his friend’s cheek. “Athos?”

 

The lieutenant mumbled something under his breath, and curled up on his side.

 

Aramis ran his hands over his brother’s body. He found no obvious injuries.  

 

“We need to get him to the estate as quickly as possible,” he said. His fingers felt for the pulse on the swordsman’s neck. It was thready, and much too rapid for his liking.

 

Porthos scowled. “Why am I not going to like this?”

 

“Because it means I’m riding alone.”

 

“No.” Porthos shook his head adamantly.”It’ll end up taking longer, because we will have to go back and pick you up off the ground. I prefer to have only one unconscious brother at a time. And right now, we need our medic to be alert.”

 

Aramis wanted to protest, but he knew that Porthos was right. He already felt lightheaded, and was quite sure that his dizziness would not improve during the ride. 

 

Porthos and d’Artagnan finally managed to get Athos up on the horse. They held him in place until the dark skinned musketeer mounted up behind him. 

 

“Come on,” murmured d’Artagnan, helping Aramis to his feet. 

 

The others joined them. 

 

”What did you do with the bandits?” d’Artagnan asked.

  
“We left them tied to the trees,” Philippe replied grimly, clearly unhappy that they had to leave the men behind. “I expect their friends will find them and set them free.”

 

Noiret came up. “We will pick them up tomorrow.”  He apparently had not heard Philippe’s comment about the likelihood of the prisoners being freed by their comrades.

 

Aramis did not think that the men would live to see the dawn if they spent the night in the forest. His guilt seemed to cast a shadow upon his heart. They should not have left their prisoners like that. 

 

D’Artagnan seemed to read his thoughts. “They tried to kill us. If we arrest them, they’ll go to the hangman. So in reality, what we’ve done has given them a chance. It’s the only chance they’ll get.”

 

Aramis merely nodded. An awkward weight seemed to have cloaked his soul. It was difficult to find any reason for its appearance. After all, it was not the first time had they left bandits tied to trees because transporting prisoners would slow them down. It was not the first time they had had to travel while injured and exhausted. Aramis sighed heavily, as worries for Athos began to fill his thoughts. 

 

He felt completely helpless. All of his medical knowledge seemed useless at this point. He did not want to admit it even to himself, but he had started to lose hope that Athos would recover. He had heard enough about poisons to know they could be debilitating as well as deadly. He fervently hoped that Athos would avoid death or long term health issues, but he was no longer so certain that his brother would emerge unscathed from the effects of the poison.

 

He relaxed against d’Artagnan, allowing the Gascon to support his weight.

 

“Aramis?”  He heard worry in the boy’s voice.

 

“I’m fine. Am I too heavy for you?”  He started to push up, struggling to regain a more upright position but an arm held him firmly. 

 

“Stay where you are,” murmured d’Artagnan softly. “I’m just checking on you. After all, I am responsible from your welfare.”

 

Aramis chuckled slightly.

 

“So you’re offering me a decent dinner, a hot bath, and a cosy room with a crackling fire?” he inquired, his voice dreamy.

 

“You’re always so focused on bodily comforts! But yes, I plan to give you all of those things, just as soon as we reach our destination.”

 

Aramis sighed. “Ah, it’s nice to know you’re able to work miracles. As the estate hasn’t been used for several months, I expect it’s rather dreary and cold right now.”

 

“True, but I am sure it is well supplied. Before you know it, you will be warm and cosy in your castle, Princess,” d’Artagnan chuckled.

 

Despite his light tone, the boy was nervous. Aramis could feel it. He also was able to think of many reasons why this might be the case. However, he was not sure if his friend was tormented by something in particular, or if the past few months were finally taking their toll on him.

 

“D’Artagnan?” he asked softly.

 

They were riding in the middle of their group, near Porthos and Athos. Constance and Philippe were in the lead, while Noiret brought up the rear.  Although they were riding as a group, there still was enough space between them to allow for a private conversation which would not be overheard by their companions. 

 

“What?” the Gascon mumbled, his arm tensing around Aramis.

 

“Is it something in particular worrying you?” the marksman asked, craning his neck so he could glance back at his brother. The boy bit his lip, and appeared nervous.

 

“If you have a bad feeling about our journey, you should need to voice it.” Aramis was pretty sure that was not the case.  They had taught the boy to trust his hunches, and to never be afraid to let them know.  As of yet, they had never known him to be mistaken. In fact, in many cases, his suspicions had served to save their lives.

 

“No. It’s just that so much has happened recently. Sorry, I should pay more attention to the road,” d’Artagnan replied, his voice tense. 

 

_ If it he was simply worried about Athos, he would tell me. _

 

“Then what’s bothering you?” The marksman did not intend to give up easily, especially as his brother had not told him to stop.  Clearly, whatever it was, the boy needed to talk about it

 

“Aramis…”  the Gascon sighed heavily, and the medic knew he had won. The boy shifted in the saddle, glancing over his shoulder to make sure that no one was close enough to overhear.

 

“I slept with Constance,” he blurted out.

 

“I’m guessing it was not the first time.” Aramis voice was soft and careful.

 

“It was… well, the first time after Allancourt.” D’Artagnan spoke in a whisper, lowering his head so he that hid his face in Aramis’ hood. 

 

After the silence became too heavy to bear, Aramis prodded, “And?”

 

“She made me forget about everything,” d’Artagnan mumbled. 

 

Aramis felt lightheaded with relief. His little brother would make a full recovery.

 

“That’s wonderful!” he whispered, doing his best to project his joy into his words. 

 

“Do you think so?  It is possible...that I have not tainted her?” The pleading tone in his voice touched Aramis’ heart. The boy was begging for reassurance that the the woman he loved had not been harmed by his action.

 

“Do you love her?” Despite knowing the answer, Aramis had asked the question..

 

“Of course!!!” The boy’s head snapped up, and there was fire in his voice. He seemed offended by the question.

 

“Aramis!”  Just as he was about to speak the words that were on his lips, Porthos’ shout interrupted him. A genuine smile was on the marksman’s face for the first time in months.

 

“Yes?” The medic glanced at his brother. When he saw the dark skinned man’s grim expression, Aramis felt the light that was dancing in his eyes begin to fade away.

 

“Check on Athos.”  Porthos combined an order and a plea in those three words. The big man rarely issued a real order to Aramis. There  was always something else that was implicit in his voice or his eyes.  This time was no exception.

 

“You want me to examine him on horseback?” The medic asked the question, even though he already knew the answer. Manhandling a semi-conscious Athos back into the saddle would pose quite a challenge for them, as well as for their patient. Porthos had not regained his legendary strength, and the whole process would likely be quite painful for their injured friend.

 

They halted, and D’Artagnan maneuvered Orage towards Nuage. The horses were fortunately used to such close quarters. The animals obeyed their riders, even though Nuage clearly felt uncomfortable.  _ The horse is acting just like his rider _ thought Aramis, extending his ungloved hand to touch Athos’ face.

 

He frowned. “His fever has risen.”

 

“Should we stop?” Porthos asked, his eyes alert as he scanned their surroundings for any sign of danger.

 

The medic replied after a moment’s thought. “The best thing to do is to ride on, as fast as we can.” He prayed that he had made the right decision. 

 

Porthos merely nodded, and spurred their mounts forward.

 

Aramis tried to remain alert. However, exhaustion had taken its toll on him. Several times, he jerked awake, and found himself held securely by d’Artagnan.

. 

“Sleep, Aramis,” the Gascon whispered each time.

 

Each time, the medic asked about his brother before dozing off again. “How’s Athos?”

 

“Not worse, I hope,” was Porthos’ usual reply.

 

Not this time. 

 

Aramis woke with a start. He blinked, trying to clear the sleep from his brain.  Something was not right. After a moment, he realized that they were not moving.

 

“What’s wrong?” he mumbled.

 

It was afternoon. Sunset was probably near, but a thick layer of grey clouds covered any sign of the sun as it descended in the sky.

 

“We’re changing horses. Do you think you can remain mounted by yourself for a moment?” d’Artagnan asked.

 

Aramis nodded.

 

The boy slid from the horse and extended his hand to Aramis. The marksman dismounted, grateful for the Gascon’s help in keeping his body steady.

 

“Athos?” he asked nervously.

 

D’Artagnan gestured towards an area a few yards away. “Over there, Porthos thought it might be a good idea to give him a rest while we tend to the horses.”

 

The boy led Aramis towards the swordsman, who lay on a blanket that had been spread out on the ground. The medic sat down next to his brother, and set about examining him.

 

Athos’ temperature was not dangerously high, but it was higher than he would have liked. The swordsman seemed to pass in and out of a semi-delirious state, tortured by demons from his past. From time to time, he mumbled a word or two, but no one could make out what he was saying. Aramis gently rubbed his cheek, calling his name. Athos tried to elude his touch. He never opened his eyes, and seemed deaf to the medic’s pleas and orders. The only positive sign was that when he was offered some herbal brew, he drank it. 

 

“Yes, he needs a respite, but in conditions better than we can offer him here,” Aramis said grimly, offering an answer to the unspoken questions of his companions. 

 

No one disagreed. They were soon on the road again, this time bearing lit torches. The forest surrounding them was saturated with rain. Each time the riders brushed against some vegetation or a tree branch, droplets of water showered down on them. The marksman began to shiver. The chill had already penetrated through his clothes, taking a firm hold on his body. The occasional drops of cold water that hit his face did nothing to improve his condition. 

 

Aramis was dizzy and fatigued, but the cold kept him wide awake, refusing to allow him the blissful reprieve of sleep. D’Artagnan did his best to attempt to shield his brother from the cold, but failed miserably. 

 

Finally, they reached a broad avenue which led towards the estate. The horses’ hooves thundered across the wooden bridge, the river concealed by the darkness below them. They stopped in front of an iron gate. Philippe dismounted, opening it with the key that had been given to them by Queen. The gate swung open with a loud creak.

 

The avenue ran through some gardens, then led to the building that loomed ahead in the dark. They did not use the main entrance, as they thought that it would be easier for them to dismount in the stables. Aramis allowed d’Artagnan to assist him. To be honest, his brother bore most of his weight during the short journey to the back door of the manor. When they stepped inside, they were welcomed by a blast of cold air. D’Artagnan checked a few doors, finding them locked. Finally, one opened. He led Aramis into the room and lowered him onto a chair.

 

“Stay there for a moment. I don’t want you falling while I’m gone. I’ll start a fire, then help you change into some dry clothes.”

 

“My herbs… I need to prepare some tea for Athos…” Aramis muttered. He watched Porthos carrying Athos into the room. He laid him down on the couch.

 

“Need to check on him.” Aramis was shocked to find that just speaking a few words could drain what little reserve of energy he had left.

 

Porthos helped him to his feet, practically dragging him over to Athos. Somehow, Aramis found that he had been relieved of his wet jacket. The dark skinned musketeer took charge of Athos, stripping off his wet clothes and wrapping him in blankets. Despite his fever, the swordsman’s hands and legs were disturbingly cold. 

 

“The bricks are heating up.” D’Artagnan had set to work straight away, and the medic nodded in gratitude. Then he turned his attention to Athos. Unfortunately, he soon realized that there was not much they could do for their brother except to keep him warm and control his fever. Aramis fervently hoped that his leader would not develop a cold---or pneumonia. That was the last thing he needed.

 

Constance brought some hot water, and he prepared a draught for Athos.

 

The redhead watched him, narrowing her eyes when she saw how slowly he was working. “I think you need to drink some tea as well.” 

 

Aramis was too tired to answer. He struggled to focus, and hoped he had not made a mistake with measuring the herbs. He drank his tea as hot as he could stand. 

 

“There is a huge tub for for bathing, but I am afraid that it will take a long time to heat up that much water.” Constance sighed, her own fatigue now evident. “I suggest we deal with it in the morning.”

 

Aramis felt a pang of disappointment, but gasped in delight a moment later when d’Artagnan put a hot brick under his feet.

 

“But this should be for Athos…” Although he protested, the medic had to admit that the heat the brick provided was pure bliss.

 

“He has his own brick.” D’Artagnan grinned, although he was visibly tired. “Don’t worry, there are plenty enough to go around.”

 

Aramis allowed Porthos to divest him of his wet clothes. He gasped when he felt a hot cloth on his neck. 

 

“What…?” he mumbled.

 

“No bath for you today but I thought it might help to clean you up a bit. Don’t you like it?”

 

“Yes...”

 

At this stage of exhaustion, he would refuse nothing that was offered to him. He was too fatigued to protest when he was washed with a warm cloth and wrapped in some heated blankets. He was vaguely aware of being fed some stew. He was too weak to hold the spoon himself, but at this point, he did not care. He was nearly asleep when he was laid on the bed and covered with some more blankets.

 

“Sleep, Mis.”

 

He grasped Porthos’ hand.

 

“What about you…?”

 

“I’ll join you eventually, but I don’t intend to go to sleep with an empty stomach.”

 

Aramis pulled his friend’s hand to his cheek, nuzzling against it for a moment. He heard Porthos’ amused chuckled. A moment later, the hand was gone.

 

Despite his exhaustion, the medic was aware of movement in the room. Then there was the smell of food. If he had not been almost asleep, he would have been hungry once again. Strains of hushed conversation came to his ears. Finally, a familiar warmth settled next to him. He huddled against his brother. A few moments later, the steady rhythm of Porthos’ breathing lulled him into a deep sleep. 

 


	73. Chapter 73

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance's POV

Constance

 

She woke up, drawn into vague consciousness by the wind howling outside the window. She shivered, and reached for the blanket. It was only then that she realized it was wrapped around someone else. 

 

Was it d’Artagnan? If yes, she would feel free to steal the blanket back. However, if it was one of her wounded brothers, such an action would be barbaric.

 

_ Great… so I am not sure who is sharing my bed. My husband would not be amused. _

 

She opened her eyes, and saw d’Artagnan. He was sound asleep. She leaned towards him, pressing her lips to his in a quick kiss. The musketeer surprised her by wrapping his arms around her. An instant later, their lips met again in a deep, passionate kiss. It was then that she remembered that they had taken a room for themselves. It was a bold move to share not only a bed, but also a private room, with her lover.

 

Her lover… She shivered under his touch. It felt sinfully good to share a morning together..to  savor their love for once. Usually, their time together was always rushed, as they were always conscious of the possibility of getting caught. 

 

_ We’re sharing a bed and a bedroom… Like a real couple… _

 

Much later, Constance slipped out of the room, leaving d’Artagnan asleep. She wanted to get a head start on preparing breakfast, especially as she knew that Philippe and Noiret wanted to leave early in the morning. The two musketeers had a long journey ahead of them before they reached Paris. They planned to bypass Fontainebleau, which meant that they would have to spend a night or two in the forest or at an inn. The mere thought of spending the night outside made her shiver.

 

The kitchen needed a lot of work. Several months had passed since it had last been used. A thick layer of dust covered the tables and shelves. The previous day, Constance had been too tired to take care of it. She had simply made a quick fire, then heated up the stew she had taken from Fontainebleau. 

 

Next, she checked the caves that were used for storage. In the first one, she found shelves filled with bottles of wine. Most of the names meant nothing to her, but she was certain that Athos would recognize the names of the vineyards. She saw no food, and began to worry until she entered the next cave. She sighed in relief when she spied bags of flour and groats. There were smaller bags of sugar, dried vegetables, and fruits. Dried meat was hanging from the ceiling. There were bottles of oil and vinegar, wheels of cheese, and jars brimming with honey and jam. She also found bunches of herbs and little bottles of rare spices. She had never seen such a well supplied larder. The Queen was truly generous!

 

Constance prepared some sourdough starter, berating herself for not having done it earlier. It would need a few days to be ready to use. Until then, she would have to make do with flatbread and pancakes. She started to make some pancakes, softly humming a tune her mother had always sang while working in the kitchen. Although her parents had never met until after the marriage negotiations between their families had been concluded, they had grown to love each other. Although young, her mother and father had both had free hearts, and had been ready to commit to their betrothed. Why had such an arrangement not worked for her? She really had tried her hardest to love Jacques...until the day d’Artagnan had rushed into her life.

 

Would her mother accept her betrayal? She doubted it. Her father would be undoubtedly be angry with her. It was a good that they no plans to visit her--although when she had first come to Paris, she had been bitterly disappointed by their unwillingness to travel to the city. 

 

The door was slightly ajar, but the knock still surprised her.

 

Noiret came in, stopping in his tracks when he smelled the delicious aromas that already permeated the kitchen.

 

“Good morning, Madame, I came to see if there is any hot breakfast available.”

 

She smiled. “You’re in luck. I just finished making some pancakes with cheese. There’s also some warm porridge. And please call me Constance. I thought we were done being formal.”

 

“Yes, Constance.” He gave her an uncertain smile, and glanced around as if he were expecting d’Artagnan to suddenly appear and upbraid him for improper behaviour. She had seen the men act this way on several occasions, and it always made her smile. It was so wonderful to have someone who loved and defended her!

 

Philippe joined his friend, and she served them breakfast. Then she loaded a tray full of food to bring to the Musketeers who were still unwell.  Philippe jumped up immediately, and insisted on carrying it for her.

 

She felt uneasy as she knocked on the door of the room where they were staying.   

 

_ What if they had taken a turn for the worse? _

 

She was not sure if she could bear more anxiety and grief. 

 

She heard an answering groan, and entered the room, her heart in her throat.

 

Porthos slowly separated himself from  Aramis, who lay sprawled on top of him.The marksman whimpered softly. Porthos turned to Constance, his eyes full of worry. He managed to summon a smile to his face, but it disappeared an instant later.

 

“I’m afraid he’s relapsing,” Porthos whispered. Strain was evident on his face.

 

“Should we fetch a doctor?” Philippe asked.

“No! Treville made it clear that he doesn’t want any outsiders here,” Athos replied firmly.

 

The dark skinned musketeer cast him an angry glance, and refocused his attention on his brother. As his fingers combed through the medic’s mop of hair, he bit his lip, trying to master his fear and pain.

 

Constance felt that she needed to do something. She approached the bed, and gently touched Aramis’ face. His skin had finally warmed. This could signify the beginnings of a fever, but she wanted to believe that it was a sign of recovery.

 

She checked on the wound, and saw that it was healing. However, it would leave a bad scar, one which would not be easily camouflaged by hair. 

 

This reminded her of her own scars. In the midst of all her concern and fear for her loved ones, she had completely forgotten about the burns on her face. They did not seem to disturb D’Artagnan, but she knew her disfigurement might make it difficult for her to regain her place at court. 

 

Obviously, the Queen would not care, but the other ladies in waiting were a different story. They were furious that a common woman had been chosen to be the Queen’s confidant. It should have been one of them - a woman of noble birth, educated in court life, and well aware of its pitfalls and traps. They had been trained from birth on how to navigate such a hostile environment with grace. Constance always felt completely out of place. Instead of  swimming with the current, it seemed as if she was always fighting against it, inevitably in danger of being swept out to sea.

 

“Constance?” Porthos voice was full of fear.

 

She realized that she was still staring at Aramis’ wound. It was obvious that Porthos’ imagination had conjured up the worst possible explanation for her distraction.

 

“It’s healing nicely,” she said quickly. “Forgive me, Porthos--I have been having a hard time focusing my thoughts today.”

 

“I’m sorry Constance, I just…” he cast a despairing glance at the marksman. 

 

The young woman tried to wake their brother. Her fingers tapped his cheeks gently, but relentlessly. He groaned, and tried to avoid her touch. Finally, she was rewarded with an irritated, slurred plea.

 

“L’t m’ sleep.”

 

Porthos cupped his face. “You need to eat something!”

 

Aramis lifted his eyelids slightly, and met his brother’s eyes. 

 

“Please, eat something!”  The dark skinned musketeer begged as if he were pleading for someone’s life to be spared, not for his friend to eat a few spoonfuls of stew. Perhaps there was not much of a difference in his tormented mind.

 

“I’m not worse, just tired…” the medic whispered, his hand covering Porthos’.

 

“I… are you sure?” Porthos, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, still sounded broken.

 

“I am.” Aramis smiled softly. He reserved this sort of smile exclusively for Porthos. It was not the flashy grin that he offered easily to his companions... nor the seductive half smile which made women swoon...not even the rare genuine smile that he showed his brothers when he was truly grateful or relieved. The softness of his expression spoke volumes about his trust in and love for his brother. 

 

Aramis allowed Porthos to feed him, obviously hoping to relieve the big man’s fears. Then he nestled next to Porthos, and fell asleep. The big man fondly stroked his brother’s hair. His eyes met Constance's gaze, mutely asking if she believed Aramis. She gave him a slight nod, and some of the tension left his face.

 

Constance focused on cajoling Athos to eat. The swordsman was more compliant than he had been the day before.

 

“There is a quite a wine cellar here,” she said thoughtfully.

 

He perked up noticeably. “Really? What sort of wine?  Perhaps you could bring a bottle here.”

 

“I could..but only if you finish this bowl of broth,” she stated sternly.

 

“All at once?!” he grumbled.

 

“Not necessarily. But when you finish it, I’ll bring you some wine.”

 

He inclined his head. “It’s a deal.” 

 

She hoped that meant he felt better. 

 

Still, it was worrying that it took him until the evening of the next day to finish the bowl. Constance tried to convince herself that it was a good sign that he hadn’t thrown up since they had arrived. But between Athos’ poor condition, and Aramis’ need to sleep for days at a time, it was difficult to remain optimistic. 

 

Porthos kept vigil near his brothers, as it was clear that Aramis needed him as his pillow. The truth was that the marksman would become restless if he did not feel Porthos’ warmth. The big man even tried to see if it would help to wake him up, but it did not.

 

Constance did not spend much time with them. She was too busy making the rundown place habitable. With d’Artagnan helping her, it created the impression that they were setting up house together. It was an intoxicating feeling. Constance felt like she was living in a dream. A dream which was intense due to contradictory emotions. There was joy in these precious moments stolen from fate, but at the same time, anguish for Aramis and Athos.

 

She sat down heavily in a chair at the kitchen table. D’Artagnan was busy out in the stable. They would soon eat dinner together. She tensed when she heard approaching steps. Standing up, she silently moved to a place near the door, and stood with a dagger in her hand.

 

Someone halted outside the door.

 

“Constance?” The voice was soft and hesitant...almost unfamiliar for a moment.

 

“Aramis?!”   She yanked open the door, and stared at him in shock. “What are you doing here?! Is something wrong with Athos?! Sit down, before you fall!”  He looked unsteady, and she maneuvered him towards a chair. He moved along passively, which made her worry even more. 

 

She was now close to panic, and took in a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself. Aramis allowed himself to be guided onto a chair. Surely if Athos’ condition was worse, he would have protested....

 

“So, tell me,” she said, gently taking his face in her hands. “What are you doing here?” His eyes were closed. The fatigue so clearly visible on his pale face made her heart clench painfully. 

 

“I… I woke up and… Porthos wasn’t there… I… wanted to find him, and I smelled something cooking, so I came here.”

 

“Porthos will be terrified when he comes back to the room and finds you gone!  He’s been so worried about you....”  She felt awkward talking to Aramis about it, and her voice trailed off. 

 

“How long have we been here?”

 

“Nearly three days. You’ve basically been asleep the whole time. It was hard to wake you up even for a few moments. Porthos was constantly checking you for signs of a fever. He has feared for your life so much.” She shook her head sadly. “It seems he has not recovered from you nearly dying when you were so ill at Fontainebleau…”

 

“I know,” he whispered. A shadow seemed to pass over his face. “He has been giving me the gift of warmth, and all I offer him in return is pain and grief.” He slowly opened his eyes. 

 

“Listen to me!” Constance said vehemently. “I didn’t tell you all that to make you feel guilty! I just… cannot stand to watch him suffer so much. You must find a way to help him. I know you were the one who came close to dying, but now he’s the one who needs help coping with that.” She slowly brought her eyes to his, suddenly afraid she had gone too far. 

 

Aramis smiled at her sadly. “I’ll do my best to help him,” he said, leaning his cheek against her palm. “I’ve tried to be strong for him, but if I’ve been sleeping for three days, it appears that I’ve been a hopeless failure!” He laughed, but his eyes were without mirth.

 

Constance sighed in exasperation.  “No! You misunderstand me! He doesn’t need you to be strong. He just needs your presence. He needs your touch, your voice… your permission to allow him to help you. He needs you to share your burden with him. Knowing that he can help you somehow makes him feel stronger.” She watched him intently, afraid she was being too bold.

 

But there was no anger in his eyes. His sad, soft gaze hypnotized her...it was full of raw sincerity, without any shield.

 

_ Was this exactly what had made the Queen lose her heart to him at the convent? She had undoubtedly been initially attracted by the facade of an indestructible knight.  But seeing him broken and vulnerable after Isabelle’s death--had this caused her to fall in love with Aramis the person?  _

 

_ Would I have fallen in love with him myself if I had ever seen him like this before? _

 

“I really have nothing else to say after… our talk in Fontainebleau. I would only be repeating myself,” he said softly.  He seemed to be silently pleading to be allowed the illusion of forgetting.

 

Before she could even think, she blurted out the question that was tormenting her. “Was that meant to be your goodbye?”

 

He shook his head slightly.  After a few moments, he said slowly, “Yes and no. Obviously, if I was to die, I wanted to be at peace with my brothers...but I guess I wasn’t truly aware of seriousness of the infection. I suspected it might be bad, but I really didn’t believe it was happening.”

 

He averted his eyes for a moment, then looked back at her. “Part of me wanted to unite all of you before leaving this earth, but another part of me just wanted to… explain my actions and hear that I’ve been forgiven… and get Athos to believe that he was forgiven. I’ve learned from experience that when he feels guilty, even if you see no reason for it, it is hopeless to try to persuade him that he’s without fault. It’s much better to maneuver him into a talk and listen to his confession. Then--and only then--can you try to convince him to accept your forgiveness.”

 

Sighing, he said, “Porthos has taught me that problems spoken aloud to a friend seem to diminish almost immediately. So, in a way, you’re right. I could not bear the thought of leaving this world with Athos drowning in guilt. It wouldn’t be fair.” A bitter smile crossed his features, “But it was more than that… I needed to know that they...that you...wouldn’t reject me once you knew the truth… because they… you were the motivation to beat the odds… the reason which had to be felt, not just known. Forgive me, I’m talking too much.”

 

“There’s nothing to forgive. You’ve just answered my question.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “I think we should use this time that has been given to us to talk. We need to heal-- not only from physical wounds and ailments--but from emotional ones.”

 

He smirked ironically.  “So, what criteria will you use to declare us emotionally healed?”

 

_ Good question. I wish I could give you an answer. We’re all damaged in one way or another. _

 

She gave him a challenging look. “Why are you asking me? You’re the unofficial medic of the musketeers.  You’re usually the one who decides if your comrades are fit for duty or not.”

 

“As long as you can hold a weapon in your hand and fight… you’re fit for duty. Your nightmares, your tears--as long as they don’t impede your performance, they remain your own affair.”  He shrugged.  “What I can say is that you’ve done wonders for d’Artagnan. It’s a good thing that you’re together.” This time, his smile was warm and sincere.

 

“But it’s like we have been living a dream here.  I’m so happy with him, but when we are back in Paris, I’ll have to confront my husband.  I am afraid, Aramis!”

 

He surprised her by taking her into his arms. She leaned her head against his chest, gratefully accepting the comfort he was offering her.

 

“Constance… it will be difficult, but the important thing to remember is that you love, and you are loved in return. You will be with your sweetheart. I know that you’re afraid, but I promise you that as long as any of us live, you won’t be alone. And if we perish, the Captain and Anne will take care of you. Even if d’Artagnan were to die, you will never end up on the street.”

 

His words shook her to her very core. He obviously had guessed the reason for her fears, and knew just how to soothe them. She saw nothing but sincerity in his dark eyes. 

 

“I love d’Artagnan…” she whispered.

 

_ And I want to have a family with him. But I for now, I use herbs in order to make that less likely to happen. I cannot afford to become pregnant now.  _

 

“If you need anything… just let me know.” Aramis’ words took her by surprise.

 

_ Was he reading my thoughts?! If not, what did he mean?!  _

 

All at once, she realized that it did not matter--because he had meant every word that he had said.  _ If you need anything, let me know. _

“Thank you.” She gave him a grateful smile. “I am..”  She never got a chance to finish her sentence. The door flew open, and Porthos rushed in.

 

“Constance! Have you….”  He suddenly fell silent, his eyes widening when he saw Aramis.

“Why are you here?”

 

“I was searching for you... and the divine scent of Constance’s cooking led me here. Please forgive me, brother.”

 

Porthos crushed him in an embrace. Aramis shifted his position in order to lean his head against the crook of Porthos’ neck.  They stayed like this for a long moment.

 

“How do you feel?” Porthos asked finally. 

 

“Much better,” Aramis murmured. “The long sleep did wonders for me...and made me quite hungry.”

 

“I’m glad to hear it.” Porthos fondly kissed his hair. 

 

Constance smiled, always happy to see a display of brotherhood between the two men. “Dinner will be ready soon.”  

 

Porthos helped with the trays. They brushed away Aramis’ attempt to help. The mere fact that the marksman was walking by their side caused Constance to grin like a madman. She glanced at Porthos, and realized she was not the only one who was feeling such emotion.

 

Athos gazed at them intently when they entered the room, then raised one of his eyebrows quizzically. 

 

Aramis sat down near him. “How are you feeling?”

 

Athos shrugged, but Constance was glad to see him accept the bowl of soup that she offered him. 

 

A moment later, d'Artagnan entered the room, and exclaimed, “Aramis! You’re awake!” 

 

Despite his joy, Constance noted with amusement that his eyes immediately strayed to the food.

 

The Gascon helped himself to a full plate, and started to eat with relish.  “We need to pay more attention to the horses. They cannot just stay in the stable. I took each of them for a quick ride today, but they need more exercise!”

 

“As we all do.” Porthos gestured towards d’Artagnan and Constance.  The fact that he included her made the young woman flush joyfully. 

 

_ I am really one of them! They treat me as an equal!  _

 

“I agree. We are doing Constance a disservice by keeping her cooped up in the kitchen,” Aramis said lightly. “Her cooking skills are exquisitive, but she could use more work on her marksmanship and her sword skills.” 

 

Porthos grinned. “Good idea!” The big man’s’ enthusiasm made her a bit uneasy.

 

A few days later, she thought  _ I was right to feel uneasy _ . For what seemed like the hundredth time, she found herself on the ground after an unsuccessful attempt to defend herself against Porthos. 

 

“I thought you said I need practice with the sword!” she exclaimed.

 

D’Artagnan laughed. “You do. The only problem is that you have to get through Porthos to actually get your hands on your sword.”

 

Her sweetheart was sparring with Aramis. The session was more of a light dance than anything else, an attempt to get their bodies used to training again. The medic was still weak, but he insisted on taking part in their training.  They had collectively decided it would be best to allow Aramis to exercise with them in order to keep an eye on him.

 

Athos sat on the bench that stood against the wall. He was dozing, but from time to time he cast a glance towards them.

 

Aramis sat down heavily next to him, his body drenched in sweat. Athos opened one eye, quickly assessing his brother’s condition.

 

“Porthos, leave Constance to d’Artagnan,” Athos stated dryly. “Aramis appears to be in a need of a pillow.”

 

Finally, she had the chance to cross blades with her sweetheart.  She went on the attack, forcing him to go on the defensive. However, just at the moment she was sure to best him, he caught her sword on his, and twisted it out of her hand. 

 

“You forgot about your main gauche,” drawled Athos. “It’s not in your hand in order to make the fight tougher for you.”

 

She sighed. Athos was obviously right. 

 

“As for you, d’Artagnan--” Athos paused, and gave him a disapproving look. “If Constance had used her dagger properly, she would have easily wounded you. The injury would have been quite painful and disturbing. You need to be less enthusiastic with your attacks.”

 

A week later, Athos did not only comment on the action. He took up his own sword. 

 

“We must go over a few of your movements. You need to move deliberately, but neatly.”

 

Athos glanced at Aramis. The marksman saluted him with his sword, then proceeded to slowly go on the offensive. They must have practiced that particular exchange numerous times, as the sequence of moves seemed to be well known to both men. Finally, Aramis launched his own attack. Athos flicked the marksman’s blade aside, causing it to slice through the air. His own sword slid onto Aramis’ blade, then halted on the medic’s throat. 

 

They repeated the movements a few more times. Finally, a fatigued Athos sat down on his bench, watching as his friends repeated the exercise. It was disturbing to see him so weak.

 

Constance tried to listen to all the hints Athos gave them, but became frustrated when she was unable to perform the technique correctly. She felt she was somehow making a key mistake, but neither were she nor d’Artagnan could identify it.

 

Finally, Athos stood beside her. He placed his hand on hers, and guided her movements until a very shocked d’Artagnan had her blade resting on his neck. 

 

“Once more!” Athos ordered, then stood back to observe their movements.

 

Constance finally managed to repeat the sequence correctly on her own. She did it two more times, just to be sure it was not sheer luck. 

 

Athos saluted her with the glass of wine in his hand. She grinned at him like an idiot. The rare taste of happiness made her almost feel lightheaded. 

 

She looked around, and saw d’Artagnan smiling fondly at her. Porthos quickly closed the distance between them, and gave her a warm hug.

 

“Well done,” he murmured.

 

Aramis joined them, light dancing in his eyes.“Yes, sister--well done.”  She ducked out from under Porthos’ arms to place a quick kiss on the medic’s cheek. Her brother’s cheek. 

 

“I wish we could stay here forever!” she said fervently. 

 

“Oh, I think you’d eventually get bored,” responded Aramis with a smile.

 

“If I didn’t return home, what would I tell my husband?” She finally had blurted out the thought which had kept her from sleeping over the past few days.

 

“You would tell him that the Queen needs you,” responded Aramis simply. “After all, you have a room at the palace....and I’ll always be willing to defend your honor with my pistol.”

 

“No! I don’t want Jacques dead!”

“You’re not alone, Constance,” Athos said, finishing his glass. “You’ll never be alone as long as we are alive.”

 

_ It was so wonderful to hear Athos say the same words that Aramis had said. It almost seemed like a vow. _

 

Porthos nodded. “We will gladly face your husband with you.”

 

_ They were so amazing! _

 

“And we’re doing it for you,” Aramis said. “Not just because you are the woman that d’Artagnan loves.”

 

“I am humbled by your words…” she whispered.  “Thank you!”

 

This was madness. It was a leap into the unknown...into a dangerous life. It was the final break from her vows. A final escape from her former life. A few months ago, she had not been ready to put aside everything to follow d’Artagnan….to freely choose to live as his lover. 

 

But now, she was not just choosing to be his lover. She was choosing to be part of a family. 

 

Suddenly, Athos’ eyes met hers. The swordsman extended his hand, and Aramis’ and Porthos’ hands landed on top of it. D’Artagnan joined them, and suddenly four pairs of eyes were looking at her. They were inviting her to join them.

 

She covered their hands with her own. 

She was not alone anymore. 

Even if she was headed for a fall, they would be there to pick her up...or to perish with her. 

 

The End

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this long journey ends. Not completely as I’ve started to write the next part - Her Honor.
> 
> I want to thank you for reading and indulging me with your reviews. To know that you like this story means so much for me!
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you once again!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my Beta – Riversidewren.


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